Every dog has a signature move.
They have some weird quirk, or funny game, or strange physical ability. Every single one. If your dog doesn’t, it just means you haven’t noticed it.
Riker, our two-hundred-pound Anatolian shepherd was, literally, a big crybaby.
He cried when he wanted love. He would lay in the living room, look as pitiful as caninely possible and weep and wail. He also cried at night when he went to bed, until I went over and tucked him in with his blanket and gave him a goodnight kiss.
Yeah, he wasn’t spoiled at all.
But the big payoff was when you went over and showed him some love, he would actually purr. Like a sofa-sized kitty. Purr.
When we go on walks, Crowley, our current pup, has one of the nuttiest moves I’ve ever seen.
He’ll take a few steps, lower his left shoulder, and drop like he’s been shot. Then he lays there, on his side, and laughs while looking to see if I’m watching him. If it’s not 1000 degrees or I’m not in a rush, I run over and make a huge fuss over him, “Oh poor Crowley fell over! Whatever shall we do?” He thinks the whole production is hilarious.
Turns out, it’s the actual technique for stuntmen to fall dramatically and also something the army teaches for hand-to-hand combat. I’m not quite sure how Mr. Crowley Pants learned it, but I’m seriously thinking about trying to get him a gig as a self-defense instructor.
All the love and knowledge that I have to show my dogs came from the original dog; Fluffy.
We got him when we lived in Puerto Rico. He was the surprise love child of a chow and a Borinquen terrior, which was the colloquial term for a mutt of indeterminate lineage. He and I would sit on the curb, watch the world go by, and share a Charms pop (I took a lick, he got a lick…).
My big brother Homer who was also stationed in Puerto Rico adopted Fluffy’s brother. Unlike his black, extremely hirsute littermate, Eric was short-haired and as red as Opie Taylor’s tresses.
As for Fluffy’s move, he jumped.
He didn’t leap into swimming pools like those frenetic pooches you see on ESPN when there are no human sports to televise. He didn’t jump over felled trees and across brooks and streams like National Velvet.
From a sitting position, he would leap straight up. If you held a piece of cheese as high as you could, he would vault toward the ceiling, grab the nosh, and land again into a sitting position. And all in the blink of an eye.
My dad is 6’4” and his reach is somewhat north of eight feet. No sweat for Fluffy. That dog would make Zion Williamson weep with jealousy.
He had one other odd “talent”.
In San Diego, we lived in a house with a chimney. In that chimney was a beehive. Periodically a bee would fly out of said chimney. The first time we saw it after we moved in, Mom freaked. She was just about to call an exterminator when Fluffy walked over and caught it and ate it.
We were afraid he’d get stung and swell up and get sick. Never happened. The dog just loved the taste of bees. And for the entire time we lived in that house, Fluffy never missed one.
That dog and his insect predilection would have come in very handy a few weeks ago. Instead of stinging me more than twenty times, Fluffy could’ve just gobbled them up.
Thanks for your time.
Contact me at d@bullcity.mom.
In the fall of 2013, the Matthews Family Band was shaken to our core. Petey was desperately ill. From mid-October to the end of March 2014, he was in the hospital much more than he was home.
Our dog, Riker, was my only, my constant companion. Before I left the house, I took him out. After patiently waiting for me all day, we’d go for a walk as soon as I came in at night.
Drinking was an option, but I save my calories for desserts and macaroni & cheese. Riker might have turned to drink, but 200-pound dogs can be really ugly drunks.
Our street is a dead-end, and beyond is forest. Instead of walking our usual route which was to the end of the road and back, when we got to our turnaround, for the first time ever, we kept going.
One day I was walking an unfamiliar path and saw a large German Shepherd coming toward me.
Yeah, yeah, yeah, don’t talk to strangers. I heard it from my parents when I was a kid. Later on I heard it from Petey and The Kid (Don’t they sound like a buddy cop movie, though? Maybe played by Bob Newhart and Tim Curry). And I still get it when I’m out—pretty much every time.
One afternoon my mom, a toddler-aged Kid, and I were walking through the parking lot of a local mall to get the car and go home. Two teenaged guys were working on a car with the hood open. Having driven my share of less than reliable autos, I felt for them.
Turns out the pair were attempting some grand theft auto. My helpful gesture was unappreciated by them, but the rightful owner was pretty grateful for my meddling/helpfulness.
That’s how I met the Murphy’s. Through them, I met Petey. So, if I’d stayed home being a good girl, I would never have met the man who was destined (cursed?) to become my spouse, and then there would be no Kid.
I’m a sucker for a puppy (and all dogs are puppies—always, no matter their age or size).
It’s not just a good idea, it’s vital to do some research on dogs in general, and specifically, the breed in which you’re interested. My family had no idea that in addition to being more energetic than a bus full of sugared-up cheerleaders, they’re hounds, which means they’re loud. Really loud. Like, bloodhound loud.
Honest, she showed up, dripping in malodorous “mud”, hair completely ruined, and thermonuclear danger in her eye.
Fluffy was the one that taught me that a dog can be your very best friend, full of constant, unconditional love. The two of us used to sit on the curb in front of our house and share Charm’s lollipops. We’d take turns, lick for lick.
bull city mom 