The Dingo Ate My Baby!

Preparing the dogs for Sydney’s arrival sometimes has me engaging in embarrassingly foolish behavior.

You will have to read to the end for the worst. First, how I got here…

Brooke has me convinced the dogs will not accept Sydney unless we “handle” this transition right. Apparently she has been reading books by dog psychologists or something. Actually, I don’t know where she got the notion, but I would not be surprised if she reads books by dog psychologists. She’s one of those people who treats her dog like a human, so I am sure she attempts to get some sort of Jedi mind connection with him when I am not around.

By the way, the fact the world has dog psychologists says a lot about the world. There’s nothing wrong with a dog that either a tasty doggie treat or a whack with the New York Times won’t fix. They’re pretty simple creatures.

But if any dog needs a psychologist, it is our Weimaraner, Murphy. You’ll remember my description of him from this post. Long story, short: his nickname is Special Ed.

Brooke is concerned Murphy will feel “misplaced” by Sydney. He has been raised as mama’s “baby” for seven years and she does not feel he’ll adjust well to someone else receiving all of her attention. She’s afraid he might get depressed.

I’ve helped raised Murphy from when he was a pup. I am pretty sure we can cure any problems he has by giving him a pork chop bone or some chicken-fried steak. This is a dog that runs to the dishwasher when it opens because he wants to lick remnants off the plates. Have you ever heard of that disease called Prader-Willi Syndrome, where children can’t stop eating? I think Murphy has it. If we put a 40-pound bag of food in front of him for dinner, one hour later he would be 40 pounds heavier and in a food-induced coma with a look of contentment on his face.

Brooke’s concerns about our German Shepherd are different. She is worried he might EAT our daughter. Vegas has an obsession with children. He’s not mean to them; he thinks every one of them wants to be his best friend. So he spends his time nipping at their hands and arms, trying to get them to play with him.

This causes problems because a German Shepherd’s “nips” hurt. And children are drama queens. A little bit of “hurt” turns into screams for a trip to the emergency room. Sissies.

Side note: I confess to once having this problem. In fourth grade at Franklin Elementary, we started a gang called the Falcons. The initiation into this hard-scrabble group of street toughs was to run down a hill and jump off a bit of a cliff. The fall was about five feet. If you could do it without crying, you were in. Well, I broke my collar bone. I held the tears for all of seventeen seconds. By the time I got to the emergency room, I was screaming like a 12-year-old girl at a Justin Bieber concert. The nurse put up with it for about five minutes and finally said, “Shut the hell up right now. We can’t get you better if all you do is scream. I don’t want to hear it anymore.” Yeah, back then, they could talk to you like that. I didn’t have to be told twice. So I KNOW drama queens.

PS: Because I broke a bone, they made an exception to the crying rule and I was a Falcon for all of fourth grade. Eat your heart out, Bloods and Crips readers.

So Brooke wants us to “ease” our dogs into this. We talk about Sydney like she is a person around them. “This is Sydney’s dresser.” “Sydney is going to sleep here.” “Sydney hates bad doggies that eat her.”

The room itself was a challenge. This room has been an office since I bought the house in 2003. Now it was filled with toys and clothes and girlie little things. Vegas was especially befuddled when things changed. First, his all-male kingdom was infiltrated by Brooke, an enemy spy of the opposite sex, and now the spot where he chewed his ham bones while his daddy watched porn sports on the Internet was becoming a satellite office for Babys-R-Us. His doggie head was about to explode.

We introduced each toy individually. Special Ed thought they were all his. This was not good. He generally chews his toys to bits. So he got a lecture on each and every toy. But it was not all business. When we hung the mobile over the crib and started playing the music, Special Ed cocked his head left and right trying to discern what the hell he was watching. You know how it is when dogs are confused and they start tilting their head back and forth like they’re listening to Sarah Palin explain Paul Revere’s ride or Jessica Simpson discuss how buffalo wings might not be made from buffalo? Always good for a few laughs.

But the most embarrassingly foolish thing I have done to prepare my dogs for the arrival of Sydney is walk around with a stuffed red rabbit and treat it like an actual baby. I call it by her name and hold it and coddle it and act like it is my daughter. I let the dogs sniff it and watch while I tuck it in for the night. Brooke insists this will be good for the dogs and get them used to the baby’s presence. The dogs look at us like we are nuts, but at least they haven’t tried to eat the red rabbit yet. Maybe there is something to this.

But that doesn’t stop me from feeling like a Darwin Award winner for stupidity. I am carrying a doll around acting like it is a real baby so I can teach a lesson to an animal with a brain that is the size of golf ball.

WHO needs a psychologist?