Jeneration X: One Reluctant Adult's Attempt to Unarrest Her Arrested Development; Or, Why It's Never Too Late for Her Dumb Ass to Learn Why Froot Loops Are Not for Dinner (15 page)

Let’s just say the second it came to sharing a water dish, our guys were less than hospitable.

I may have matured, but a portion of our family hadn’t.

We adopted Maisy and Loki eight shoe-shredded, carpet-ruined, plant-unpotted years ago. Their adolescence was destructive but brief. Now I’d probably rather they eat the occasional
sneaker than the alternative, which is staring at me when they’re bored and I’m working. Clearly they’ve lost any manners we taught them in obedience training when they were pups.

The problem is entirely, one hundred percent our faults. We set the bar for their behavior terribly low. We wanted two sweet dogs that’d coexist with our churlish cats and that’d be friendly towards guests, and oh, boy! Are they friendly! Just ask Stacey about the time Maisy launched herself from one couch to the other so she could show her exactly how friendly she could be. Poor Stacey said it was like being hit with a cannonball. With claws.

Once we achieved the goal of having affable, social dogs, we never pushed them any harder. We wound up with two willful creatures who’d tell us in no uncertain terms when they were ready to eat, potty, and be entertained. If we were lucky, they’d even scoot over enough so that we could sleep on our bed with them. [
Years ago we bought a king-sized bed because it was easier than fighting or sleeping on the couch.
]

Apparently this was bad.

Perhaps when our friends made statements like, “You should really read Cesar Milan’s books,” or “No, seriously, please, watch
The Dog Whisperer
,” or “Thank God you don’t have kids,” we should have taken the hint.

Now I have the clarity to realize we must break the cycle so we’ve forgone adoption while we bring Maisy and Loki in line. We’ve enlisted them in a doggie boot camp, which is as much for them as it is for us.

Despite acting like the pronged training collars were killing them dead, splat, the first time we attached them, they’ve quickly come around. In a few sessions with Elaine, our no-nonsense
trainer from the rescue group, the dogs are starting to learn that everyone wins when they obey our cues. More importantly, Elaine makes us realize that we don’t have to live a life where our dogs run the show. In fact, it’s our obligation as adults and owners to do so.

Seeing the difference in them is amazing. For example, mealtime used to be chaos with yipping and shoving and jumping. But now we make sure they know we’re the ones in charge and they don’t get anything until they calmly sit and wait to be served. Through the training process, they’ve learned that no squirrel tastes as good as discipline feels. Also? It’s easier to do what’s expected because ultimately the rewards are greater.

Hey… that might explain why I finally stopped fighting growing up, too.

When Angie’s here for a girls’ weekend on one of our regular training Fridays, she wraps her arms around Elaine and says, “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” the second Elaine walks in the door. Elaine, although initially taken aback by being grappled by a stranger, immediately understands because she’ll never forget exactly how ill behaved our guys were.

Our progress has been so measurable that the agency believes we’re ready to introduce a new dog to the household. The big, golden boy we met was adopted to a wonderful home, [
Yay!
] so next week we’re meeting a puppy. And we’re going to begin working with her immediately so she’ll grow up understanding expectations and won’t ever be stuck in a state of arrested development (like we were.)

Now, if I could only train Jordan and Tucker not to barf in my shoes.

Then again, there’s a reason no one calls themselves the Cat Whisperer.

My friend Gina’s mom used to say that everyone needs something to do and someone to love and they’ll never be without a purpose.

Of course Gina’s boyfriend Lee says in a pinch, all you really need is someone to hate. Hate’ll get you through.

Miss Liberty Belle, a skinny brindle pit bull with white feet and enormous brown eyes, has something to do (play with her tennis ball) and has someone to love (Maisy).

As for Maisy?

Her hate for Libby is what’s getting her through.

We welcome Libby into our lives on a chilly winter day and we’re struck with how angular and bony she is. We always assumed pit puppies were little butterballs like Maisy was when she was small. However, Libby’s still recovering from a tragic beginning. First she and her littermates were starved and when they didn’t die fast enough, her original owner threw her and her siblings into a box and
hit them with his car
. Only Libby and one of her siblings lived and the other one was so sick she didn’t make it.

This
is why I’m so adamant about supporting animal rescue. The fact that there are people out there who treat living beings like this makes me weep for humanity. [
And makes me want to dig out my good whacking shovel.
]

Anyway, Libby survived, but barely. She was infested with thousands of fleas and she nearly lost her life to parvo. But she
pulled through it all and when she has her clean bill of health and a full set of immunizations, she’s placed with us.

I should probably mention that she’s the happiest little girl in the world. Dogs live in the now and when Libby looks around, there’s nothing about her now that she doesn’t love passionately. She doesn’t run so much as spring and bounce mountain goat–style and we believe her inner monologue sounds like this:
“Libby! Libby! I am Libbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbyyyyyy!”

Again, Maisy? Not so much.

We thought Maisy would lose her mind with all the mothering she heaps on puppies she meets while out for walks. But I guess street puppies never tried to share her bed or were fed tasty-smelling, high protein, grain-free puppy food in front of her.

All Libby wants is to be Maisy’s bestie, but Maisy would like nothing to do with her, thanks for asking. She refuses to play with Libs and she’s always shooting sour glances in her direction. Maisy’s snarly and unwelcoming and pouts when we make her stop. But somehow, instead of this being stressful and wearing Maisy down, it’s lifting her up. We haven’t seen her this spry and active since before she was diagnosed.

Gina says Fletch never seems happier than when he’s righteously indignant and the same holds true for Maisy.

Of course, Maisy’s never come up against the unmitigated joy and determination of a little girl named Libby.

Whereas Maisy’s all flinty-eyed and calculating, Libby’s face is wide open and unassuming. If she were a person, she’d be wearing pigtails and overalls. Her friendly demeanor is enhanced by her ears which are extra-floppy and project from her head like a set of bat wings. They flap when she runs. She’ll often try to put them
up Doberman-style when she’s outside, but they’re too heavy and they just fold over like she’s wearing a hat.

Libs never looks at us straight-on. Rather she pulls that nose-down, eyes-up business that buries the needle of the cute-o-meter in the red every time. Even though she’s a plush chocolate-caramel brindle, she sports a large white patch on one side of her nose and it’s dotted with freckles. I find it virtually impossible to see her snout without wanting to place a kiss on it.

When we first bring her home, I feel like I’m doing something wrong by loving her, even though she’s the embodiment of happiness and joy. “Do you think Maisy feels like we’re being disloyal?” I ask Fletch again and again.

“I think Maisy wants a cheeseburger and that’s the extent of her cognitive abilities,” he replies. Of course, Fletch feels none of the lingering guilt because he was smitten the first time Libby curled up in his lap. If there’s such a thing as a daddy’s girl, Libby is one of them. We actually have to work on this in training because instead of disciplining her, Fletch apologizes whenever she does something wrong. [
Maybe I spoiled the last two, but I’m doing this one right.
] “I wouldn’t stress. Libs is going to win Maisy over yet. She’ll come around. Mark my words.”

It takes two months, but Libby does it. She and Maisy are inseparable now and whenever Maisy has a down day, [
Which are far less frequent since Libby got here.
] Libby’s right there bringing her hot tea, Jell-O, and the latest issue of
Star
magazine.

Of course, everybody is Libby’s pal and she brings such a
sweet energy to the room that we’re able to have doggie playdates for the first time. [
Hello, Tracey’s sweet dog Maxie!
] Even though Loki and Maisy are lifelong buds, they’ve never quite gotten the hang of entertaining each other. Maisy only likes to tug and Loki prefers to be chased and they’ve always looked to us to provide these services. Libby just wants everyone to be together so she tugs and chases and engages all.

If Maisy could, she’d be the older sibling who taught Libby to smoke. Since she can’t, [
No thumbs.
] she’s shown Libby how to bed-hog and counter-surf and beg and she’s convinced her that making potty on the living room rug is the next-best thing to relieving herself outdoors.

We have our work cut out for us.

So, we step up our visits with Elaine and buy paper towels in bulk. And offer prayers of thanks to have found such a
good
bad dog to complete our family.

W
hen I was in eighth grade, Japan was the coolest country on the planet. With “Mr. Roboto” on the Walkman,
Karate Kid
in the Betamax, and our T-shirts embossed with the characters for “storm sewer” and “dishwasher,” [
According to Reggie, our Japanese exchange student who, ironically, came to the U.S. to escape Japanese culture.
] our nation embraced Japanese culture so much that we even tried sushi. I’m sure our Founding Fathers spun in their graves, all,
“Raw fish? Wrapped in
seaweed?
I’m sorry, did we lose a war or something?”

Much like Australia and our short-lived passion for Men at Work, Vegemite, and all things
Crocodile Dundee
, Japan’s fallen out of favor. One might think Toyota’s massive PR FAIL is the root of the problem, but that’s just a smoke screen. The real culprit is far more insidious.

I’m talking about the Wii Fit, of course.

If you’re Amish and you’re reading about this device for the first time, [
I like your beard.
] the Wii Fit is a Japanese gaming system designed to get the player moving. Instead of sitting in a stationary position like for traditional video games, participants have to kick their legs and swing their arms in order to boot on-screen soccer balls and return lobs on the tennis court. (I mean, sure, you could kick a ball and swing a racket in real life, but then you’d have to leave your basement.) To me, the Wii Fit seems like a way to work out without actually having to, you know,
work
, so naturally I’m all over it.

Like the rest of the nation on the day after Christmas last year, I knock back my eggnog, brush the cookie crumbs off my lap, and quickly hook up the console.

Ha! Right. As someone who never knew the microwave had any setting other than HIGH, this is way outside my pay grade.

Instead, I task Fletch with the setup.

“It’s supposed to be super easy,” I tell him. “All the reviews I’ve read said a thirteen-year-old boy could put this together.”

Three hours, a pint of bourbon, and more anguished cries of, “I need a thirteen-year-old boy!” than our neighbors are comfortable hearing, the system is together.

Everyone’s always going on and on about Wii Bowling and Wii Tennis, but before I can try my hand at either of them, the game wants to assess my Wii Fit age. I’m not thin [
At all. AT ALL.
] but I’m strong and my balance is such that I can navigate a flight of stairs with a basket of laundry and a stack of Pottery Barn catalogs, vaulting over dog-and-cat-based obstacles, never once spilling my coffee.