CHAPTER 1
A.D.D. Dogs
Dear Randy,
We adopted Annie from your shelter about six months ago, and I'm afraid it's just not working out. She's a good dog overall, but she's so hyperactive it's driving my wife and me crazy. In short, we never realized how much work getting a dog would be, and we think it's in everyone's best interest if you could find her a more suitable home.
Please let us know when we can bring Annie back to the shelter.
Sincerely, Couch Potato Man
Dear Couch Potato Man,
If you wanted a dog who sat next to your wife on the couch and watched television, you should have gotten a Gund. They are soft and cuddly, and don't need to be walked.
Yours, Randy Grim
Against my better judgment, I didn't send that note. But this is what happened: Couch Potato Man brought Annie straight to the shelter with the complaint that she was "too hyper to live with," and in retrospect, now that the other dramas of that particular day are resolved, I feel a little bad about how I responded.
It happened to be one of those days.
The evening before, one of the dogs in the shelter went into labor, and because she was still recovering from life on the streets — malnutrition, dehydration, and a nasty wound on her neck — I spent the entire night in mucous-drenched shredded newspaper trying to make sure everyone popped out okay. They did — all seven of them — and while seven healthy newborn pups might be cause for celebration in some quarters, in mine it meant I'd have to find seven new homes in addition to at least 300 others.
On top of that, my assistant Jenn and half the volunteers all called in sick with the same flu, and without them, it's impossible to run the shelter. Especially if it's me that has to run the shelter. Jenn had instructed me to never answer the phones (something to do with being "rude"), so I didn't know how to deal with all the flashing lights on the new system. Jenn had also told me never to touch the new Mac (something to do with being a PC person and thus "stupid"), so I couldn't figure out how to turn it on. And no one had ever showed me where we keep the coffee filters, the extra toilet paper, or the paper towels (which I desperately needed to clean up the mess I made when I used toilet paper as a coffee filter).
On top of all that — and this is the big one (and the reason I suspect everyone called in sick with "the flu") — the day before, someone had brought us a little terrier he'd found on the side of the highway who had very obviously been sprayed by a skunk. The minute he stepped through the door, the sulfuric, satanic smell engulfed the entire shelter, and throughout the rest of the day, it permeated our clothes, the other dogs, and, I swear, my cigarettes. During every break I took, I inhaled skunk. To make matters worse, the terrier was friendly and rambunctious and kept jumping up on us, wanting to play.
Jenn Googled "skunk smell" and found that the best way to get rid of it was to bathe the terrier in vinegar douche — only no one would go to the store to buy the twenty bottles we needed.
"What would people think if a girl bought twenty bottles of douche?" Jenn asked.
"What would they think if a big gay guy bought twenty bottles of douche?" I asked.
"Just wear sunglasses," she said.
"You wear sunglasses," I said.
"I can't. I think I'm coming down with the flu."
So as the phones rang, the coffeemaker overflowed, and dogs who needed homes barked for their breakfast (which I couldn't find), a very rotund Mr. Potato plods in with Annie and says, "She's too hyper to live with," followed by a confused grimace and, "Jeez, what's that smell?"
I glanced down at the dog. She was of medium height and had a short white coat speckled with black and brown spots, which meant she was probably the result of a pet Dalmatian or Australian shepherd who got loose while in heat and then mated with a mixed-breed bad boy from across the tracks. Dalmatians, Australian shepherds, and other working breeds — including setters, pointers, retrievers, and spaniels — are dogs who've been bred for high energy, which means that they and any of their mixed-breed offspring will drive everyone around them crazy. Dalmatians, for instance, were selectively bred by the English aristocracy to run alongside and underneath their horse-drawn carriages. Why, I don't know (probably to guard their jewels or something), but imagine how much stamina it required for a dog to run under a coach for long periods of time at the same speed as the horses.
Terriers, too. Jack Russells, Scotties, Airedales, and any of their offspring who inherit some or all of their tenacious little genes will go out of their way to annoy you.
As Mr. Potato stood there waiting for me to say how sorry I felt for him, Annie's heritage betrayed her as she wrapped herself around his legs until the leash tightened, then unwound herself and immediately re-wound in the opposite direction.
"She never sits still," he said.
I nodded.
"She paces around the house constantly. It drives us insane. We have wood floors and her toenails click on them like I don't know what, a typewriter or something. We have to turn the TV volume up high to drown it out."
I nodded again.
"And then there's the barking. She barks at everything. She paces from one window to the other and barks out of each one. If the air conditioner turns on, she barks. If she sees her shadow, she barks. If a doorbell rings on the TV, she barks." As if on cue, double lines on the phone started ringing, and Annie broke into song.
"See? And then there's the other stuff. Like when we walk in the house, she goes absolutely crazy, jumping up and down and gouging us with those toenails, yipping and yelping. Jeezus, it makes us crazy. We tried to teach her to sit, but the closest she ever comes to the actual position is a crouch, and then she just crouches there, shaking, like her energy's about to make her explode. Watch this...."
Mr. Potato told Annie to sit, and she immediately danced in circles, crouched for a split second, then went spinning into circles again.
"See? And then there's the whole issue of demanding attention. We can't watch TV without her jumping up on the couch, trying to get in our laps and whipping her tail around in our faces. When we make her get down, she sits there, shaking, pushing her nose into our hands or walking back and forth, rubbing her...
