Adventures in Dogsitting: Molly

Once again, as referenced in my very first blog post, I am dogsitting. As usual, it’s like we’re following some kind of wacky sitcom script. I intended to save this story for another day, but I know how much my mother is looking forward to it.

Lest you think Rikki is my sole source of entertainment on these occasions, let it not be said that Molly is deficient in this regard. Molly is, as previously mentioned, the world’s largest golden retriever. She weighs in around 150 pounds. For those of you who don’t have experience with the breed, the average golden retriever weighs about 80. She’s not overweight -- she’s just huge. The vet will attest to this. She can rest her chin on the dining room table without difficulty. She’s big and powerful, but luckily for all of us, she has a sweet disposition.

Since my parents moved to their big new house in the woods, Molly has attained a distinction she was never given at their old home. At the old home, she had a large fenced-in yard in which she had the freedom to run around as she chose. Here at the new place, she has a new trick -- she gets taken for walks, on the leash, like a real dog. She's extremely proud of this, especially since it's a privilege the other two don't share. She gets to be special.

The first time I was introduced to this particular novelty, my mother had me hook on the leash and take Molly out to collect the mail. The mailbox sits at the end of their long driveway, so it really is a bit of a walk. This went well. Naturally, I expected it to go equally well in their absence. Of course it did not.

At first it was fine. We trotted around the front yard aimlessly, looking for just the right spot for her to do what she needed to do. The beautiful dog next door, Wolfie, was out so we went to say hello; he’s a sweetheart and he and Molly are good friends. Then, without ceremony, she flopped down on her belly in the middle of the lawn and beamed at me as a dog does.

“Molly,” said I, glancing around in case any of my parents’ neighbors were out, “you can’t stay here.”

She wagged her tail.

“No, really. Get up.” I pulled on the leash. Considering her size, this achieved exactly nothing. “We have to go inside now.”

Wag. Smile. I think she might even have winked.

This went on so long that I was convinced the neighbors were making popcorn and would be coming out any second to enjoy the spectacle. In desperation I pulled out my cell phone and called my husband, then put the phone next to Molly’s ear so he could attempt to reason with her. This also failed, but at least the neighbors must have gotten a good laugh. Finally, Wolfie came back out and said something that I, silly human, couldn’t understand, but it convinced her to go inside. I’m not even making that up -- she went in because the dog next door barked at her.

I can only imagine how the conversation must have gone.

Wolfie: Molly, what are you doing?
Molly:  Making Aunt Laura look stupid.
Wolfie: While I approve of your initiative, this particular effort will mostly just accomplish mucking up your beautiful coat with grass and mud. This is a trick best saved for the middle of winter, when you’ll accomplish a lot more -- you’ll cool your belly, make your Aunt Laura look like an idiot, and get her sick.
Molly: Wolfie, you’re a genius. I’m going to go in right now and confuse her.

Once inside, it seemed like the best thing to do was to try to get her to eat her supper. See, while Molly now goes for walks on a leash like a real dog, she doesn’t eat like a real dog. She seems to forget, in between meals, that she actually likes dog food and that she requires regular servings of it to keep her belly content. So we have to play this game. (This isn’t just me, incidentally. This is part of my parents’ daily lives.)

I prepared the meal by emptying two cans of dog food onto a paper plate. She will only eat one specific kind of dog food, although I’m avoiding naming the brand because I’m not sure about legalities. Two cans are needed because of her size; again, we’re not overfeeding her and she’s not fat. Just enormous. Think of her as being like Clifford the Big Red Dog’s little cousin. Once it was all prepped, I brought the plate over to her and put it on the floor.

“Molly, eat your food.”

As usual, she looked at me like she thinks I’m insane. I then had to prove her right by muttering baby talk -- or rather, Molly-speak -- while forcing her jaws apart and putting a piece of dog food far enough back in her mouth that she actually chewed and swallowed rather than spitting it back out. This little maneuver is one of the main reasons we’re lucky she has such a sweet temper, since otherwise I probably would have lost a few fingers by now. She ate it, then looked contemplative. I do like this, don’t I? Should I eat it? I don’t want to give the humans the idea that I’m easily satisfied. They have to be kept in line, and I‘ve been training them for so long I don‘t want to give up now.

“Molly, eat your food.”

To my astonishment, Sheela the living throw pillow exerted herself so far as to leave the sofa long enough to eat a little of the food. This was acceptable to Molly, who would allow Sheela to take the food right out of her mouth if Sheela were so inclined.

“Molly, eat your food.”

She shook her head.

“Eat your food! You gotta eat your food.” More Molly-speak. She ignored me.

One day she will eat her food like a real dog. I think.

Adventures in Dogsitting: Rikki

Since I do not, at present, have anything more urgent to occupy my time, I'm spending the evening at my parents' house.

If you were a smallish girl during the 1980s, like I was, you very possibly either had the Barbie Dream House yourself or you knew someone who did. My parents basically live there now, except that unlike the Barbie Dream House, their home does not easily split into three sections and it does, in fact, have a staircase.

(Sidebar: The lack of stairs always bothered me about the Barbie Dream House. How were the Barbies supposed to get upstairs to the lavish bedrooms? It made no sense. My sister and I, after spending some time being perplexed by the lack of upper level access, finally hit upon the solution: Malibu Barbie was capable of flight, and whenever one of the other dolls wanted to go upstairs or downstairs, she was responsible for ferrying them. Why could Malibu Barbie fly? For that you would need to ask my sister, because that was her favorite doll, and the logic employed by her five-year-old mind was beyond even my seven-year-old comprehension. In any case, this was a much easier dilemma to solve than the others, namely the lack of a bathroom and the fact that we had ten dolls of mixed gender and the house had only one bed. As I recall, we decided that the bedroom closet was really a bathroom filled with invisible plumbing, to fool Barbie's enemies, and the dolls slept in shifts so nobody had to share the bed. End sidebar.)

Anyway, I often go to my parents' house, but not always to visit.  It's just as likely that I'm going there on a particular day because they aren't home as because they are.  I'm the designated dogsitter, you see.

My parents have three dogs. The youngest one is just a year old, and the only boy. His name is Rikki, although he answers just as readily to "Rikki, no!" or "Metronome Butt," which I named him because when he wags his little stubby tail he looks like he's keeping time to someone's erratic piano playing.

Rikki and Sheela, the oldest dog, are both toy fox terriers. Sheela's main personality trait is a preference for moving as little as possible. The majority of her existence is spent repining on the sofa, like a Southern woman with a permanent case of the vapors. Between them in age is Molly, the world's largest golden retriever.

There's also a cat. She's older than all of them, but they seem to think she's the interloper.

To the dogs, for reasons that have never been adequately explained, I am "Aunt Laura." When my parents are going to be gone for more than a few hours at a time, I hang out with the canines and then they're happy because they think someone's home. I love them dearly, don't misunderstand me, and they are wonderful dogs; but dogsitting is, almost without exception, a recurring adventure.

Rikki, being a puppy, is hyperactive, wicked fast and almost impossible to catch. Don't blink because he'll disappear. The best way to keep him amused is to give him a plush animal, which creates an immediate and highly important project. In case you weren't aware, the most effective way to kill a stuffed animal is to rip out one or both of its eyes, then lobotomize it by removing all of the stuffing inside the head. Not only does this assure everyone that the animal is dead, but you can redecorate the living room at the same time by strewing the cotton innards all over the carpet.

Another great way to entertain Rikki is his favorite game, tug-of-war. Sometimes he will bring me the plush animal, and push it into my hand until I attempt to take it away from him. We then engage in an epic struggle, human versus beast, and I have to say that for a small dog weighing less than ten pounds, Rikki is strong. It's like playing tug-of-war with Bamm-Bamm Rubble. There's no logical reason why you can't pull the toy away from him; you just can't. After a minute or so, if brute strength isn't enough to rip the toy from my hand, he starts shaking his head violently, causing my elbow to rotate in its socket in directions that I'm almost positive it was never intended to go. Letting go doesn't necessarily work, since about half the time he promptly comes over and pushes it into my hand again.

Eventually, he deems me boring and wanders away to eat the dry cat food.

He comes back after a while and tries to jump on my lap.  This would be fine if he actually wanted to be held, but he doesn't.  What he wants is to play keep-away.  I'm going to make you want to hold me, and then when you try, I'll run away!  Oh, this is a great game.

Sometimes I'll catch him and we sit down together.  This is when I spontaneously develop large quantities of...something...on my face.  I don't know what it is, but it must taste fantastic, because Rikki can wash my face for an hour at a time.  Unless, that is, the cat dares to enter the room.  Then all bets are off because that cat has no business being anywhere near Rikki, and he will tear my arms off in the effort to get to her and send her packing.  The poor cat takes off running, grateful for the baby gates which barricade Rikki into the living room, and he comes back looking excessively proud of himself.  And then he wants to play tug-of-war again.

And Sheela watches the entire thing from the sofa, not moving an inch, wearing as derisive an expression as a dog's face is capable of making.  I just can't figure out if her disdain is directed at Rikki, for giving their breed a bad name, or at me, for humoring him.