Two weeks before Hanukkah, and around six months before we were married, Jeff and I decided to take the ultimate plunge: we adopted a dog. I was partial to Basset Hounds since I had owned one previously with positive results, but Jeff had his heart set on more of a Cockapoo type of dog: fuzzy, friendly, and about 25 lbs. We decided right away that we would adopt from a shelter instead of searching pet stores, because we wanted to save an unwanted animal.
On a typically gray Seattle Saturday afternoon, we went searching for the perfect, four-legged companion that would fill the void left in our lives for something fuzzy that we could feed table scraps. Our first stop was the Humane Society in Bellevue where we found an adorable brown and white Cocker Spaniel who did the cutest trick; he chased his tail. The only problem was he kept chasing his tail, obsessively. We were told by one of the employees that the dog would keep chasing his tail until he vomited or defecated. Needless to say, we left that particular shelter. We tried several more with no luck, and on a whim decided to make one last stop at the pound in Kent. Imagine San Quentin, only for dogs.
In the last cage at the very end was a little dog with overgrown, black, curly fur. He looked like a smelly sheep, but he was friendly, and like the cartoons, I saw little red love hearts appear over Jeff’s head when he was giving the dog belly rubs. We adopted the stinky guy, took him right to a groomer who only had time to shave him down, then went home, and gave him a long bath. He had an eye infection, kennel cough, and an ear infection. We cleared it all up and named him Fozzy.
Four and a half years later, I have discovered one basic thing about Fozzy: this dog loves to eat. I always look forward to hosting parties where people can roam freely through the house socializing with a tray of food in one hand and a glass of preferred beverage in the other. However, I always make sure to warn them that if they set their food below dinner table level, Fozzy will pounce like Rikki Tikki Tavi on a cobra. This is a slow, lazy dog, but if there’s food, he will move at the speed of lightening. I often have to make him stay outside while I’m feeding the baby in her highchair, because he will jump up and try to knock the food out of her hand. Rachael has also learned how to whack Fozzy on the nose to keep him from stealing her graham cracker. I don’t get this scavenger behavior, since he has to be one of the most well fed dogs in the neighborhood. Due to my dog’s girth I often refer to him as a fuzzy beer keg with legs, because his belly is so bulbous.
Fozzy’s love of food nearly killed my stepdad a couple of years ago. Fresh off a kidney transplant, my parents moved in with us during the weeks that followed my stepdad’s release from the hospital. At the time, we lived in a tri-level home. My stepdad was watching television in the bottom level of the house while my mother fixed dinner. When the meal was ready, my mom called everyone to the table. My stepdad, still on a catheter, began ascending the stairs when all of the sudden, out of the blue, Fozzy tore past him entangling himself in my stepdad’s catheter tubing. The dog drug poor Dad the rest of the way up the stairs by a part which no man ever wants to be dragged, and to this day, my stepdad still hates my dog.
Most recently, Fozzy’s latest bizarre eating hobby involves Rachael’s crayons. The first time he did it, I went into a complete panic and called Crayola to make sure there was nothing toxic in the colored wax. Much to my relief I discovered that one could eat the whole box, and aside from a sick tummy, there would be no effect. I decided to buy the washable crayons figuring that maybe there would be an ingredient in those colors that would keep Fozzy’s appetite at bay. Again, he devoured the entire pack. This time I was angry, because regular crayons are about 50 cents a box, whereas the washables are $4 more. Nevertheless, many boxes of crayons, and several colorful piles of poop later, Jeff was told that there is something in the Cocker Spaniel breed that makes them hunger for crayons. Fozzy wasn’t being his usual piggish self he was simply eating colored wax on instinct. How weird is that?
Life with Fozzy continues to be an adventure, and he never ceases to surprise me. His appetite is as endless as his belly bulge, and I love the fact that after Rachael has thrown her dry Cheerios all over the floor, I don’t have to think about getting a broom. My fuzzy, little Hoover has already taken care of the mess, and is now jumping for the graham cracker.
No comments:
Post a Comment