What's his number?

August 19, 2010
Our youngest daughter is trying to convince us to get another dog.  And before I bite on that one, I’ve decided I need to cautiously and thoroughly consider the pros and cons of the matter. 

Yes, the self-employed person can really suffer from isolation, but I’m not sure I can afford another canine companion.  It isn’t the money; it’s the fact that our former boarder was no ordinary mutt. 

The worst problem was the fact that he was as nervous in our car as an Arthur Murray dropout on Dancing with the Stars.  Trips to the groomer or veterinarian became unimaginable adventures no one wanted to repeat.

I used to get this big lump in my throat every time I’d see a doe-eyed cocker spaniel, head perched out a car window and ears flying like some romanticized scene from a Norman Rockwell painting.

“That could have been our dog,” I’d say wistfully to my husband.

But my dog would be jumping from seat to seat, whining like a kid being dragged from the Magic Kingdom.

I used to blame our pet’s intelligence for his inability to adapt to car rides, but I’ve since abandoned that theory. Duke, the Beverly Hillbillies’ bloodhound, loved to ride on the family’s rickety truck. (Well, I assumed it was joy, but it could have been gas.)  And Duke was no Ivy Leaguer.

Even so, I did occasionally regret that I never considered the dog’s intelligence (or mine, for that matter) when choosing our pet, especially when I’d remember the stories my dad used to tell about his dog, Bob.

Ol’ Bob was a sharp-as-a-Ginsu knife terrier who knew his way around the farm, and then some.  With my father’s encouragement (and a switch from a nearby tree), Ol’ Bob learned to climb a ladder propped 90 degrees into the barn loft. He had no pedigree, but Bob was the standard for canine smarts. I just assumed that all dogs were like Ol’ Bob.

Not even close.

From the moment we claimed him at the pet store, I knew Rahley would be the type of pet we’d make excuses for all his life.  Named by a four-year-old who couldn’t spell or pronounce “Rolly,” his pudgy namesake from “101 Dalmatians,” Rahley was the classic underachiever. 

He was a teenager in dog years before he was housebroken, didn’t fetch the paper, wouldn’t bring the remote, or heel.  Our hopes that he would make it to canine finishing school faded faster than our eyesight.

Experts say there’s a broad range of working/obedience intelligence among dog breeds.  Border collies rank at the top and nearly 80 spots downstream is the Afghan hound. 

I remember the day I saw the “trainability” rankings in the newspaper. I combed the list to see where shih tzus fell, confidently starting at the bottom and working my way up. There he was. Number 73.

“Well, at least he doesn’t shed,” my husband said at the time, trying to console me as he picked up a half-eaten coaster off the floor and tossed it into the garbage.

Rahley may have had the IQ of a 40-watt bulb, but in truth, it was just plain fear that made him a miserable companion when cruising Main.  Nevertheless, memories die hard. 

So when my daughter sends me another e-mail of a You Tube video to campaign for a particular kind of dog, sure, I pay close attention to the way it cuddles with its owner and how it treats small children, but then I ask, “What’s his number?”

© Copyright 2010 Karol Allen

Share your pet peeves or funniest pet moments!