Wherein man’s best friend goes rogue.
Janette Spencer
For this story to make any sense, you’re going to have to understand one of my dirty little secrets. The flat surfaces in my house are my cleaning kryptonite. I organize. I rearrange. I turn my back for two seconds and boom, an explosion of papers, bags, and water bottles, falling all over each other playing king of the hill on all my tables and counters. I know what you’re thinking. Why doesn’t she just make the kids put their stuff away? Great idea. That would probably work if I’d had kids.
Honestly, that might be why this keeps happening. I never had to be the adult in the room. I never had to set a good example for children. I mean, I still enjoy my official weekly holiday, No Pants Monday, where I stay in my pajamas all day long reading and ignoring the world. I highly recommend it.
So when exactly was the last time we sat at the dining room table, my great-grandmother’s beautiful, quarter-sawn oak with carved lion feet table and ate a meal? I know we used it to do taxes within the last two years. I know because the file box still sitting there tells me so. That’s definitely not a meal. I think the last time we actually ate at the table was a family gathering before my daddy passed away and that has been quite a while. I’d feel guilty about this but I take comfort in the belief that I am a member of a rather large group, the Supper-on-the-Sofa club.
We eat dinner sitting on the sofa, watching TV. It’s comfortable. It’s entertaining. But, it’s vulnerable. Anytime you rest a plate of food below chin level of your dogs, things get complicated. I have Mastiffs and Great Danes. Everything is below chin level on my dogs. Salads are safe. But try to eat a helping of barbecue and you feel like Big Earl from Cell Block D is staring you down, trying to intimidate you into abandoning your lunch tray.
With lots of determination and consistency, we have trained our dogs to wait. We can’t quite train them to wait without dripping and drooling, and they certainly aren’t patient about it, but at least they do wait. Typically.
Our Great Dane, Mosey, has started to engage in a particular form of barter. I’ll be sitting there on the sofa directing a forkful of goodness towards my mouth, and I notice that she is sitting across from me holding something in her maw. What has she got? Well, it’s not going to be something of hers. Nope, she finds something that I hold dear, and just sits there, clutching it gently between dinosaur-massive incisors, implying that if I ever want to see my cell phone in working order again I’d better drop some macaroni and cheese on the floor, pronto.
The fact that she has figured out how to negotiate for something she wants both makes me proud and terrifies me at the same time. Often it feels less like a negotiation and more like extortion, but still it’s quite clever of her to put two and two together. She never offers me one of her toys, or bowls, or anything she finds useful. No, it’s always something of mine, even if it’s just a recently used popsicle wrapper from the trash can, that she’s holding hostage. Perhaps Great Danes have some sort of mob affiliation in their history because the more I think about this, the more it feels criminal.
This is not something she’s done just once. No, no, no, Mosey presents herself quietly carrying a bargaining chip at almost every meal now. The other two dogs wait and watch, hoping that this ploy will work and that they all benefit.
If she keeps honing her negotiation skills, maybe we can secure a book deal for her. Can’t you just imagine the cover photo?
“Mosey Brennan: The Art of the Deal.”
The story above appears in our September/October 2019 issue. For more subscribe today or log in to the digital edition with your active digital subscription. Thank you for your support!