The Puppy Files: Moving A Building

Welcome to the third installment of the Puppy Files!  This episode takes place a few years ago when I was one and a half years old.

It was early morning and Ma had just taken me outside for my post breakfast jaunt around the backyard.  Usually Pa takes me outside after breakfast, but on this particular day he had to go to work super early and since I’m not a morning dog (I need my beauty sleep after all) I waited until Ma woke up at a more reasonable hour before starting my day.  Anyway, first I checked the perimeters of my backyard for any rogue squirrels (this was before the bunnies invaded the area) and then I munched on some grass (all meals, in my opinion, should end with a nice fresh salad).   But before I could finish my salad, I heard a suspicious noise coming from the front of the house and decided to run to the front gate to investigate.

Now, overall, I’m pretty good at spacial relationships.   I know exactly how much room I need to scoot between a table leg and the leg of a person seated at that table (of course, if there isn’t enough room I simply push the human leg out of my way) and I can squeeze myself past a barely open door to bark ferociously at the pizza guy (he always gets my order wrong…I want a pizza with extra cheese and dog biscuits--is that too much to ask?).  My talent really shines, however, when I’m negotiating small spaces while running at high speeds.

So anyway, I was running from the backyard to the side gate at top speed.  Before me I saw only two obstacles in my way; Ma and the house.   As I ran, I did a quick calculation in my head factoring in how close Ma was to the house (three feet), the wind speed and direction (winds from the south east at 5 knots), how fast I wanted to get to the gate (immediately), and the condition of the terrain (dry concrete) and made my decision as to whether or not to pass between Ma and the house or go around her on the other side.

Unfortunately, I left out one vital calculation:  the movement of Ma.

Disarmed by my speed and perceived lack of control (I was in complete control the entire time I'll have you know), Ma panicked and rather than abide by the safety rule which states:

“When running, the dog, regardless of how out of control he may appear and in spite of the fact that his legs might be flailing in odd directions, his large, drooly lips obscuring his vision, and he appears possessed by a thought that is completely lost to the human, the dog is, in fact, in complete control of his body and knows exactly what he is doing.   The best course of action for any human who unfortunately finds him/herself standing in the path of such a dog is to remain perfectly still and allow the dog to continue on his way without interference for it is his intention, from the start, to avoid running into said human.”

…she tried to get out of my way by taking a step toward the house.

Unfortunately, I had already made my decision to run between Ma and the house and, despite the fact that the distance between the two had just dramatically decreased, it was way too late to chance course.  I was going between the two and there was nothing anyone could do to stop it.

I felt it immediately, the corner of the house banging up against the side of my face, just to the left of my left eye.   Realizing I was injured, I immediately scurried over to the side step and sat down in my “the dog is hurt” position.   Ma ran over and checked me out then said “I think I should take you to the vet.”

My Injury

The vet cleaned my wound and told Ma that the injury really wasn’t all that bad:  I had lost a couple of layers of skin and fur, there was some blood, and the area was a bit swollen, but overall, nothing horrible.  She said that Ma could let the wound heal on its own which might result in a small scar or she, the vet, could put in a stitch or two.  Rationalizing that I’d never be a show dog (how does she know?) and that a scar would enhance my “bad boy” image (everyone knows it would), Ma decided on the former rather than the latter and she and I went home.

Once at home, I cautiously approached the scene of the accident and sniffed at the bricks. I could smell blood, my blood.  Making a wide berth, I scurried past and went inside to take a much deserved nap.

A couple of hours later Pa came home from work and surveyed my injury.  He was very sympathetic—he gave me lots of ear rubs and said nice things like “you poor boy.”   But then, with a tone in his voice that sounded suspiciously like laughter, he asked “Rigs, why did you try moving the house with your head?”

No respect I tell you (but the faint scar is kind of cool)!