The wild outdoors

(Lessons learned from a dog that weighs no more than an overweight cat)

This dog was white when I got her

This weekend, while my son and family went to Baltimore, I took care of their dog, a Miniature Schnauzer (I think both words are capitalized) named Ghost.

I have not been responsible for a dog since the late, great Mac, a mixed-breed mutt who kept mistaking neighborhood children for chew toys. Putting that dog down for multiple aggressive incidents (and this only after calling in a dog psychologist which we really couldn’t afford) broke my heart. I vowed I’d not get a dog for a while.

That was the ‘90s. I’ve stayed true to my word.

I am the outlier in a family of anthropomorphizing, animal-crazy people. In my family, dogs wear clothes and birds ride on shoulders. Stray cats and dogs share my aunt’s address with their friends, because she’s the softest touch imaginable.

I’ve stopped commenting much because practicality as you move through the animal kingdom can make you seem heartless, and repeating “It’s a dog” does no one any good.

And besides, this dog is fairly well-behaved, though mostly untrained in the ways of sit, come, and no-I-mean-it-come-here. I found this out the morning I walked outside in bathrobe and jammies, bent to pick up the paper and turned to snap on Ghost’s leash, but she was gone, a flash of white streaking across the street and up the hill in pursuit of I am not sure what.

I called her, which was instinctive on my part and a silly waste of time. The only thing left to do was take off after her.

And then we played Criss-Cross Jerry’s Yard for more minutes than I want to count. It wasn’t as if she was playing me, but I’d get within 10 feet of her, and she’d scamper off.

(By the way? Nice raised beds, Jerry, and I love what you’ve done with the greenhouse.)

When I finally caught her, a good half-mile from home, I was furious and laughing at the same time. All the way back, we talked about personal responsibility, even though I know that to a dog, my words were like me watching the flight of a bird overhead. Yeah. OK. Cool. When’s dinner?

We also had several talks about codependency, I do not believe this dog has ever been mistreated (my son got her from a reputable breeder, for more money than I spent on my first car). Instead, her clinginess is learned behavior, which means it can be unlearned (though probably not in a weekend). We settled on this: She would sleep on the floor in her comfy bed, and I would sleep in my own comfy bed. She would limit her nighttime explorations, but if she couldn’t, she would explore quietly. If I had to shut her up upstairs (company coming over), I would stream “Designing Women” on my iPad and she could pass the time watching. We settled on “Designing Women” when “How I Met Your Mother” didn’t hold her attention. I do not know why.

We also worked out a compromise that just because I was sitting was no indication she needed to be in my lap (you cannot prop a laptop onto a dog), but she was welcome to curl up as close to me as possible.

The last time I took her outside during her visit, before handing her back to her rightful owner, she again strained at the leash, anxious to charge up the hill. What was she chasing? I think it was her animal nature, and I think this weekend was some much-needed time in the country for the dog, where she could be reminded of her dog nature. And I was reminded how much fun these little stinkers can be.

I’d thank her, but she’s a dog.