He really said that. Well, most of it anyway.

I am a fan of experiences that make me question reality. Imagine getting ready to lift a heavy container. You flex your muscles and lift, only to discover that the container is empty. Your brain panics for a split second as it tries to reconcile your previous perception of the container’s weight with the reality of the empty vessel in your hands. Experiences like this are a rarity, for our perceptions of the world have been reinforced through years of conditioning. Water in a river will be cold to the touch. Fire will be hot. Heavy things are heavy. We expect our world to be predictable.

Some things are never predictable though. Spill paint and try to predict where it will splatter. There is a randomness to life that is reassuring, for strict order would make living unbearable to even the most committed of control freaks.  Still, this randomness is in itself, reliable. We can rely on the fact that splattered paint will create a different pattern every time. There are certain laws to which the universe is bound. In certain cases, where order might otherwise lead us to madness, randomness is key. If every sunset were identical, then none of them would be spectacular.

Life with a puppy is a mixture of predictability and randomness; order and chaos. A puppy will grow, be silly, play and love. She will also nibble, chew, and make a mess of damn near everything while she learns the rules. While the acts themselves may seem random, they will occur with certainty assuming the puppy leads a relatively normal life. Try though to predict where the puppy’s drool will end up when she shakes her head and you will see the inherent randomness found within the universe. While you can safely assume that most of the drool will end up on the floor, this is simply the nature of gravity. Where on the floor it resides is a far more complicated matter.

Trying to determine where drool lands is not an act that calls reality into question. Big dogs drool, and the drool goes everywhere. My reality is filled with proof — I don’t need to study the matter any further. We need a different type of experience to test reality. For a truly jarring experience akin to lifting a surprisingly empty container, we need only one thing; a special kind of dog. We need a dog that that cares not for the rules of nature, nor for the equations that describe the laws of physics. Luckily, I know of such a dog.

I am a 45 year old writer and science buff who thinks he has a pretty fair grasp on reality. Sure there might be zombies outside the fence at night, but until you can prove to me that there are not zombies, their existence is, at the very least, a possibility. One fine night I opened the sliding glass door in the dining room to call the dogs. Upon opening said door I saw dog number one laying on the deck wagging like the good boy that he is. Guinness thumped to me his lazy Hi Daddy – I like you but you’re not the Mommy greeting that I so often receive. Not seeing Annie, I leaned my head out a bit and looked to the left where I should have been able to see the entire back yard. Only instead of the yard, I found myself looking eye to eye with dog number two; Annie, resident she-beast with the newfound ability to bend time and space.

For one reality bending second, I looked into the eyes of the mischievous one year old Landseer. She was smirking. So help me she was smirking! My brain clicked into high gear and tried to reconcile the perceived discrepancy that had lead me to question reality, and thus my very sanity. The logical process initiated by my brain unfolded as follows, all in the span of 1/10th of a second:

• Annie is a dog
• Annie is a big dog
• I am six feet tall
• Annie, though a big dog, is not six feet tall
• Annie is looking me in the eye
• Kate Beckinsale is hot
• Can dogs fly? No
• Am I kneeling? No
• Is Annie on her hind legs? No
• I wonder if Kate Beckinsale likes dogs
• Is Annie a werewolf? No – my tests ruled that out last week.
• If I’m six feet tall, and Annie is not, then how can she look me in the eye?
• Have I fallen? No
• What would Kate Beckinsale do?
• I bet she would tell me that Annie’s sitting on the storage box
• I wonder if… wait… what?

Annie had chosen to sit on the large plastic outdoor storage box on the deck. We have since witnessed her on the patio table as well. Why? Because she’s Annie. Apparently being Annie involves a blatant disregard for anything regarding normalcy. There seems to be no other reason that we could discern. She just likes to be different. Annie came to us from a rescue foster home where she spent the first few months of her life with not only other dogs, but cats as well. She seems to have taken the characteristics and mannerisms that appealed to her from each species. Then again I think Annie is simply ammused when I am forced to question my own sanity. I wonder what Kate Beckinsale would think.

Guinness the Soap Hound

Everyone loves a clean dog. Not many people enjoy the act of washing a dog, but they certainly enjoy the results. Imagine if you could teach a dog to bathe themselves. Sure they can give themselves a thorough tongue-bath, but that’s not what I mean. Imagine if you could get your dog to soap himself up, work up a good lather, then hose himself off. Heck, while we’re wishing, why not throw in a towel dry. Imagine seeing your dog walking into the bathroom with a bar of soap in his mouth and a towel thrown over his back.

These were the thoughts that ran through my head as I saw Lauren chasing Guinness out of the bathroom. Normally I would expect Annie to be causing trouble in the bathroom, so when I saw that it was Guinness, I had to look again. Mr. Guinness, resident good boy and zombie hunter extraordinaire, had tip-toed into the bathroom and pilfered a bar of soap from the tub. As I watched, he came trotting out of the bathroom, furiously chewing something as Lauren followed. He looked like a kid that had stuffed a candy bar into his mouth and was trying to swallow it before his mom could reach him.

She managed to grab him and then dug her her small hand into his enormous mouth as any mother would in order to get the illicit treat. Lauren then pulled out the remaining third of a well chewed bar of Ivory soap. The girls had just finished their showers, and I had opened the last pack that morning, so the bar was fresh and bubbly. His breath was fresh and bubbly too for the first time in months, which was nice, but not germane to the story at hand.

Lauren and I both stared at the soap remnant, then both looked at Guinness in unison. He was the good dog! Good dog’s don’t eat soap. He looked very pleased with himself and sat like a good boy expecting a treat. He then had the nerve to sniff Lauren’s hand to see if maybe she would return his pilfered snack. We told him No! and put the remains of the soap in the trash.

Guinness showed no signs of any distress over the next few days, which I guess is a testament to his constitution, or perhaps his size. Then again maybe he puked somewhere and it smells so nice we haven’t noticed yet. Lauren and I have been kind of afraid to go into the kid’s room lately. Maybe I’ll don my environmental suit and check it out. Then again maybe I’ll have the kids do it.

We now have to lock the bathroom door not only to hide the kitchen trash, but to hide the tasty soap. I’m sure that plenty of people lock their bathrooms to keep their dogs from drinking in the toilet, but to hide the soap? If there is a book entitled Problems that Normal People Have, I don’t think there’s a chapter regarding the need to hide the already locked kitchen trash can in the bathroom along with the soap. Experience has taught us that it’s hard to be normal with Newfies. Given the choice between the two though, I’ll take the Newfies every time.

Brave, Brave Guinness

There are two dogs currently in our lives; Annie, the mischievous brat who provides most of the comic relief, and Guinness, the mostly well-behaved man-dog of the house. Annie is a Landseer Newfoundland as evidenced by her black and white coat. Guinness is an all black Newfoundland with only a patch of white on his chest. Since Annie’s adventures are well documented, I thought I would take the time to share with you a tale of the mostly brave Guinness.

Guinness is a big boy that epitomizes the term barrel chested dog. He is the reigning king of dogs in our house, though he properly defers to humans of any age as he should. If there is one goal to which Guinness aspires, it is to be a good dog.

Guinness is four years of age as of this writing, and we are his third home. We are also his last home, since we love him and wouldn’t give him up for any reason short of aggression towards our children. For the record he has never shown any aggression towards anyone other than Annie, and Lord knows I can’t blame him for that. Annie needs someone to keep her in line, and Guinness is just the dog for the job. Sure we give her boundaries and try to keep her in line, but those rules are for human interactions. The job for which Guinness has been chosen is to teach Annie how to be a dog.

Guinness taught Annie how to bark. Actually I might have been OK with Annie missing that lesson, since we are now serenaded with rampant barking every night at around ten o’clock. Apparently the hoard of zombies that lives just outside our fence wakes up every night at ten o’clock, and only Annie can hear them. She sounds the alarm, Guinness runs down to support her, and they proceed to bark continuously until I call them in. Should the zombies somehow breach the perimeter and get into the house, at least I know that I’ll have enough warning to load the shotgun. That is assuming the shambling undead don’t trip over the dogs when they come in. Actually it’s the scary running zombies you have to worry about, but forgive me – I digress.

Guinness is the very image of masculine authority. He exudes an air of confidence and bravery that makes him look noble and proud. The image of stout nobility is an illusion however, as our brave Guinness is seemingly afraid of damn near everything except the as-yet unseen zombies in the woods. And Annie – he’s not afraid of Annie, though she did scare him once.

When we had Annie spayed, she came home feeling confused and sick from the anesthesia. We brought her into the bedroom so she could lay on the nice dog bed in there. Guinness came in to check on her, and very gently walked up to sniff her. It looked like he just wanted to make sure that she was alright. It was really very sweet. Annie though, was in no mood for any of his man-dog crap. She turned her head towards Guinness, raised her right lip to expose her teeth, and let out a menacing low growl.

Guinness did what any man would do when faced with a growling woman. He tucked his tail between his legs, backed out of the room, then turned and ran like Hell. We found him hiding behind the children, shaking like a teenage girl in a horror movie. If he had vocal chords I bet he would have screamed like one too. I guess he figured that two young girls could protect him from the snarling she-beast in the bedroom. Maybe he just wanted a human shield. It’s hard to read him when he’s shaking.

Guinness is also afraid of thunder, fireworks, the broom when it falls over, and anything else that makes a similar noise. We can’t fault him for fearing thunderous noises. He is just what hunters call gun shy. We all have our neuroses after all. In the grand scheme of things being afraid of loud noises is pretty insignificant compared to say, constantly stealing butter. Since his duties here preclude him from becoming a bird dog, I doubt that he’ll ever hear a gunshot. Unless of course the zombies somehow get into the house. At least I’ll know he will be safe when I’m busy fighting them off. He will be the one hiding behind the children.

Annie's Good Side

While my stories about Annie seem to revolve around her naughty adventures, I felt that it was time to give Annie her due and report on her good qualities.

The Newfoundland Club of America includes the breed standard, used when showing dogs for competition. The breed standards has this to say about Newfie temperament:

Sweetness of temperament is the hallmark of the Newfoundland; this is the most important single characteristic of the breed

If Annie is anything, she is sweet. She is so sweet that she can be down right annoying in fact. One of my many nicknames for Annie is the Love Sponge. She needs – no demands – love from everyone she meets. If you’re in the room with her, you better be loving her, or she will come over and nudge, paw or lick you until you do.

We have a rule in our house that the dogs should lay down while we’re eating dinner. The last thing anyone wants is a 140 pound drooling monster watching their every move while they try to enjoy their meal. It’s unsettling, not to mention messy. When Annie is in an I don’t recognize your authority mood, she will sit next to me and rest her head on my lap. This is a clear violation of the rules, but she knows she’s cute and all she wants is some love, so what’s the harm? When my attention lapses her tongue might sneak onto my plate, but that’s my fault for leaving my plate where she can get it. Maybe I should make a rule about that.

Annie will walk up to anyone, jam her nose under their hand or arm and flip it up onto her head. If you move your hand away, she’ll just do it again, so you might as well pet her. Once you pet her though, she owns you, so be prepared to pet her forever.

Annie is one of the most gentle dogs I’ve ever met. We never had to teach her to take snacks gently. She sticks her tongue out from between her teeth and pull the snack away from your fingers. I wish we could teach Guinness to do that. He’s getting better, but some days I think feeding lions at the zoo would be less dangerous.

So you see Annie isn’t a bad dog, so much as she is mischievous. She’s a very smart girl who’s looking for adventure. It just so happens that her adventures come at our expense. That isn’t her fault. At least that’s what Lauren tells me.