Tuesday, January 18, 2011


jack·ass noun \ˈjak-ˌas

1: donkey; especially : a male donkey
2: a stupid person : fool
3: a dog who behaves in such a manner that you frequently look at her with a scowl and mutter under your breath, "Jackass."

Meet Roxy.

Roxy is 11 years old. Sean found her on the side of the road when she was a puppy, abandoned and forlorn. After a search for her rightful owners, we decided to take her into our home and make her ours.

She soon revealed herself to be the canine equivalent of a problem child. Unlike our pug, Kato, Roxy was smart. Sneaky smart. She'd ignore you unless it suit her. She refused to do any tricks. She ate...everything. She ate a hole in the vinyl flooring. She ate an inflatable swimming pool. She ate a load of dish towels and baby socks and had emergency surgery and came close to death. Over the years, she has eaten CDs, foil pans, countless toys, newspapers, rolls of toilet paper, the bottom 12" off the living room curtains, and much more.

She barks at intruders, real and imagined. She barks at us if we're outside. She barks at the TV. She howls at the answering machine. We tried the shock collar (too cruel), we tried the citronella collar (briefly effective), we tried being stern with her (not at all effective, and it led to Julia thinking the dog's full name was 'Roxy Shutup').

Put a baby to sleep, Roxy will wake it up.
Lay anything down, Roxy will eat it.
And maybe barf it out. Most likely on the carpet you just cleaned.
Feed her a treat, Roxy shits it out in a frothy mess. Most like on the carpet you just cleaned the barf off of.

It is her way.

She instinctively knows when the door to the bathroom is open and makes her way to the trashcan. I am sure Kato taught her this trick before he died. One time, a coworker was at our apartment and used the bathroom. A few minutes later, Kato trotted out with her tampon in his mouth. If that wasn't awkward enough, the was an eternity of seconds where we both just stood there, trying to figure out which one of us should go after it. Her tampon, my dog...in the end, ownership of personal hygiene products trumped ownership of a dog. Thank God.

But...but, but, but. But Roxy is my dog. MY dog. The kids like to think she's their dog, but she's not. She follows me around, she sleeps next to my side of the bed. Any time I bend down, she is right there, looking up at me pitifully, asking for a tummy rub. She comes when I call, she gives me kisses when I scold her. She would lay down her life for any one of us.

And so, as I push her down off the baby's highchair while he's eating dinner and mutter "jackass!", she looks at me with her smiling old doggy eyes that say "Yes. But you love me."

1 comment:

  1. We apparently have long lost, completely fraternal twin 11 year old dogs. Oh, and Rutherford is a boy, but you just described him to a "t".