Pack leader enjoying time with best friends

Hey there, time traveller!
This article was published 28/02/2018 (3080 days ago), so information in it may no longer be current.

I don’t want to get all melancholy in the middle of the week, but I’m feeling a bit blue because, as the song says, they’re breaking up that old gang of mine.

What I’m trying to say is that, after spending an action-packed week as part of our pack, Toby is going home tonight.

Regular readers who are still taking their prescription medication will recall that Toby, who belongs to my boss, is a basset hound-beagle cross with the IQ of a fence post and a natural gift for breaking wind, so to speak.

Toby has been hanging out with us for the past week because his masters decided to take a sunny trip to a tropical island and they did not think he would enjoy basking on the beach with one paw wrapped around a mai tai or whatever exotic beverages they consume at resorts of this nature.

For those of you who remember how to do Grade 5 math, this means that for the past seven days, my wife and I have been attempting to hang on to our fragile sanity while living under the same roof as four dogs.

The best way I can explain it is to say it is like living in a daycare centre full time, and I know what I am talking about in the sense that, roughly 40 years ago, I spent an entire year working in the daycare centre at the University of Manitoba, which means the kids I looked after way back then are most likely the heads of major corporations today, even though I was somewhat lacking in the vital area of arts and crafts instruction.

Just like working in a high-pressure daycare environment, living in a confined area with four dogs boils down to two essential activities, namely: 1) Snack time; and 2) Nap time.

When I am attempting to write at home, the better part of my day is spent trying to get all four dogs to settle down in their favourite spots to take a nap, leaving me free to sit at the computer and stare blankly out the back window in hopes that something vaguely amusing will happen in the backyard.

The problem is that, even when they are supposedly napping in their beds or on the couch, all of the dogs remain in a state of red alert in case, for instance, I decide to get up from the computer and go to the bathroom, which immediately triggers their peanut-sized doggie brains to form the following thought: “OHMYGAWDSOMEONEISGETTINGATREAT!!!”

Which is how I end up in the kitchen with four pairs of eyes staring up at me with laser-like intensity and four mouths dangling open with little chains of dog drool descending from them to convey the notion that they know there is leftover pizza in the fridge and that would make a much better treat than (bad word) biscuits.

Before I can even begin a day of professional journalism, however, I am required to get all four dogs outside to perform their daily ablutions, so to speak. This involves a lot more than just opening the back door, because only one of the four dogs is fully capable of going up and down the back stairs on its own.

While Juno, our newest dog, is able to leap from the top of the stairs like some kind of kangaroo-wolverine cross, the other dogs require some form of human intervention. The wiener dog likes to be toted up and down like a football because, for more than a year, she has been trundling along with a baseball-sized tumour on her liver.

Our secondary dog, a cross between a throw pillow and a cotton swab, also has to be carried up and down because he recently wrenched his fuzzy little knee, which, a couple of years ago, cost us (prepare to grab your wallet protectively) $3,000 to have surgically repaired.

My boss’s dog, Toby, should be able to glide up and down the stairs on his own, but instead we go through an elaborate routine wherein I have to stand at the base of the stairs in my ratty blue bathrobe and fuzzy slippers, the wind turning my medically sensitive parts into icicles, shouting encouragement — “YOU CAN DO IT, TOBY! I BELIEVE IN YOU!” — while Toby stands nervously at the top stair like a kid with a weak bladder who is preparing, for the first time in his life, to jump off the high board at the community pool.

So we have developed our routines for getting through the day. When the dogs are not napping or snacking, they devote all of their mental energy to staring out the window looking for dangerous things to bark at.

For instance, this morning they spotted (prepare for another shock) a stick jutting out of the snow in the front yard. To a dog’s brain, a stick in the snow might as well be a gigantic jungle python looking for someone to snack on, so, the dogs bark at it to convey the notion that the house is under attack and someone had better do something about that (very bad word) stick if they know what’s good for them.

When four dogs bark in unison, it is a lot like listening to a classical orchestra. In this case, the wiener dog is both the maestro and the flute player in the sense she initiates the barking and contributes a high-pitched, ear-piercing noise to the canine symphony.

Our two other small dogs also represent high-pitched wind instruments such as the piccolo and the clarinet, whereas Toby, what with being a hound, plays the part of the bassoon, or possibly the tuba, drowning out the smaller instruments with a window-shattering howl of deepest despair.

If you can’t tell, I personally find life with four dogs to be 20 pounds of fun in a 10-pound bag. I like to think of myself as pack leader, but occasionally I seek refuge by floating in the tub in our main bathroom.

As I wallow in the tub, other members of the pack will wander in, sometimes with a toy that is covered in congealed dog drool, which I am expected, using one hand, to pluck from their mouth and fling out the bathroom door so they can chase it and bring it back because that is the best way to prove they, among all the dogs in the house, are the most loyal and steadfast and deserving of a delicious snack.

Sadly, Toby will be going home tonight, which means we will have to make do with just three dogs guarding our house, which probably won’t be enough because there is no question that (bad word) stick in the front yard is up to no good.

doug.speirs@freepress.mb.ca