Falling in Love Again

When I moved to Texarkana, I inherited somebody else's house and furniture and dishes and giant stereo speakers. I also inherited Frankie. A three-year-old Boston Terrier who had belonged to my stepson Eddie before he moved to Iowa, Frankie lived outdoors most of the time on our screened-in back porch. And, even though I am not a dog person, and even though he had a habit of throwing up at the drop of a hat, and was not to be trusted indoors on account of his penchant for chewing things into bits, I felt sorry for him. He was so lonely.

I wanted to find him, as my mother put it, a "good home." Before we got married, my husband had indicated that he would be fine with that. Before we got married, my husband said a lot of things. But when I brought up the possibility of giving The Frank away to a family ("a family WITH KIDS, kids who would play with him" I would promote), the story changed.

"I can't give him away," my husband agonized, "I love him. He's like my grandson." What?! GREAT.

So I'm stuck all day with a dog I never wanted while hubby works like a workaholic. I am a CAT person. I did not know what to do with a dog. I don't like the way they smell. I have to wash my hands (twice) every time I pet one and then put on lots of Purell.

I tried some experiments on the dog. First, I decided to find out what he would eat. He ate peanut butter sandwiches and chicken salad and even Portuguese Bean Soup. He ate restaurant leftovers of eggs and grits and hamburgers and fries. OK, so he would eat anything.

Next, I wanted to see what he would do for the above food. I found out that he would do ANYTHING. He would sit, he would come, he would jump as high as he possibly could, over and over and over again. I had some fun with that. But then I suffered through the clean-up of dog vomit often enough to stop feeding him random human food and making him perform like a trained seal to get it.

So I started playing with him. First I got him a rope and tried to play Go Fetch. Nope. He would run and fetch it, all right, and then bury it and come back with a muddy nose that he'd wipe all over my crotch. I got him a ball, which he seemed kind of interested in for a little while, but which he ripped into shreds as soon as I left him alone with it. He seemed most interested of all in playing his own games: Mudlap, Slapdog, and Slippery Pig. Let me explain the rules. In Mudlap, a muddy dog runs into the house as fast as his little legs will carry him and does a solo lap around the furniture, grinding the mud into the carpet, and possibly throwing up for good measure, all without slowing down for a second. Slapdog is a fun little game of jumping and biting at flailing human arms that are pretending to get close enough to slap. But the favorite game of all--by far--is Slippery Pig. In this game, the players chase each other around and around and around the living room furniture, with the humans (there can be 1 to 4 humans) desperately trying to catch the "slippery pig" before they pee their pants from laughter. Everybody loves a good game of Slippery Pig. I started to like it as much as Frankie did.

Finally, I decided to costume the beast. My own children had enjoyed costume play so much in their youth that I was a huge proponent of make-believe. I bought Frankie a doggie pilgrim hat for Thanksgiving. He wore it. And looking at him in that stupid hat, standing there so happy to be inside and willing to do anything to stay, my heart kind of melted a little. The game we played after that, and are still playing, is Housedog. Housedog comes in during the day, off and on, and hangs out with me, in the dog bed next to the table, while I'm on my laptop. We go for a walk together every day, and watch a little TV together at night. We play Slippery Pig at least once a day. And we love each other. I am still not a dog person. But I AM a Frankie person.