#12 PUPPY "SCOOTER, NO!"
#12 PUPPY
February 18, 2020
“SCOOTER! NO! NOOOOOOO!”
It’s a part of precious Scooter’s life I hesitate to talk about. I feel like a mother called into the High School principal’s office to learn that her gorgeous, 4.gpa, clarinet-playing, Bible-study leader daughter had been caught in the Girls bathroom vaping Juuls with the school’s slut sisters. I mean, how bad can it get?
Look, the person whose teaching I attempt to follow, once said, “You’ll know the truth and truth will set you free.” I’m not remembering the exact context in which he made that statement, but this is the truth that frees me from a faulty concept: Scooter, sweet Scooter Sublime, two of whose baby teeth lie next to my computer (they are so cute), that darling, beguiling near-to-six-month-old goldendoodle who now joyfully responds to no fewer than ten commands or concepts, who, dog-like, loves his people unconditionally, that darling boy fiercely found it fitting to bite me. That is, to snarl, smartly; to seriously warn me from under the chair where he crawled with a ball of brown yarn borrowed from my knitting bag, that he had every intention to cherish that forbidden fruit more than my authority or my love.
“Scooter! NO! Release! Bad Scooter!” said I, body extended on the floor, hand reaching to retrieve that which is forbidden. My reward? A furry face with brown wool in its mouth that only slightly impeded his fierce snarl and the snap of his jaws on my hand (no blood). A swift series of snaps. On my hand. This boy meant business. But then, so did I. The two of us had it out. Neither of us did it nicely.
Neither of us finished that skirmish believing the other was perfect, as perhaps we once were so inclined. Truth freed us both from any reliance upon sappy love. Oh, sappy love is fine. It’s just that we can’t always rely upon it.
Who was this woman who hung him by the scruff of his neck and threatened him? He didn’t’ like it. Not one bit. Who was she who harshly commanded, “Sit! Down! Stay!”, who stood tall, and shouted again and again, “Bad dog! Bad dog!”? “Dog?” She calls me “dog”?
Who was this darling, this now long-snouted dog, this strong-jawed daring, who turned on her, she wondered; he who coveted yarn more than her approval? Where was sweet Scooter Sublime? What was it in his nature that made this betrayal worth it? Dear Saint Augustine, “In your opinion, Do dogs ‘fall’?” What was it, in that unpleasant way our eyes met? I didn’t like it. Nor did he.
“Leave it!” I said, without a bit of kindness. I placed the riskily retrieved yarn next to his front paws. He left it. After a bit of time, I picked it up. “Mine,” I said. “Bed,” I said, punitively, pointing to his plush abode. He went. “Stay.” I turned away.
Scooter tucked his submissive head toward his chest and let his weary body snooze. I faced the truth that I hadn’t handled the situation well. It’s that easy. I hadn’t. But Scooter will wake, I will happily welcome him back into our usual relationship. He will wag his whole body and we will, perhaps more wisely, slip into the joy of sappy love.
While Scooter slept, the brown yarn was unsnarled, re-wrapped, and returned to my knitting bag where lies the multi-colored throw I am knitting for that very puppy. For his sake (and mine) the knitting bag will be out of Scooter’s reach, perhaps for another month or two.
Last night, while dog and his human dad took the day’s last relief walk, I tidied Scooter’s crate. I searched the bedroom carpet for his missing teething toy (It’s a part of the night’s routine). I found it.
I found it next to a snarl of —Whoa, what’s that?— soft green something. I followed the snarl to a large ball of yarn tucked under my nightstand table. Ah! The yarn I recently looked for, thinking I had put it in the knitting bag.
