Our Doodle

In her first few days of being in our lives, at four months old, she learned to literally climb a baby gate to make her escape into the wild of the whole house when we'd depart. Soon, Mr. started putting double gates up - one on one in the doorway of our laundry room. Every day she would be out, waiting at the front door when we'd come home from work.

One day, curious how this nine-pound pup could escape over the two-story gates, Mr. came home from work and placed her in the laundry room, locking her in as usual. And then he stepped aside. A whimper, a whine, and a little energy came from the baby dog. She jumped straight up, caught her paws in the middle of the gates, grunted as she pulled her back legs up to the gate, pushed off, and threw her body over the top gate and whizzed through the air until she slid across the hardwood in the kitchen, stood up, and shook it off. Tail wagging, paws-too-big for her body shaking, she hopped up and jumped - literally - into his arms.

Mr. jimmy-rigged quite a few contraptions, but even with the best duct tape, string, tennis balls, and glue our junk drawer offered, it couldn't contain this sweet apricot-colored beast. In time, she taught us that she ruled the roost and she was a free spirit who should never be contained.

Then, one day, it happened. This sweet, smart beast started talking.

And she had a lisp. And maybe a tongue thrust?

"Frow it! Frow the damn ball!" she would scream in our faces as soon as we were within a twenty-foot radius of her prized, filthy, slobbery tennis ball.

"Sheriously, Dad. Shtop blaming me!" each and every time a miserable smell would permeate the room.

In her four years on earth her vocabulary is startling similar to the first time she started speaking in front of her human slaves. Occasionally we'll get a new curse word or two (like when we pluck her from the tub when the kids are getting their baths and she really wants in on the action) or when we refuse to put her desires for a butt-scratching above our need to use both hands when we eat, but for the most part she just screams "FROW IT!" when we are near a ball, frisbee, or water bottle.

Doodle hates to be tied down. So, leashes are out. She eats her leashes as snacks and likes to get the leash down to one string, stay close, and then at the worst possible time - like entering the groomers or when a pack of beagles go down the street - she moves forth and with a snap of her head, she's running free and you have another $20 "Life is Good" leash dangling from your hand, minus a dog. Trust me, it may say Life is Good, but a dog on the run is not what makes life good! Especially in a neighborhood with rules about dogs and leashes. Oops. Dogs on leashes.

My dog isn't afraid to bite a humping dog's penis in retaliation for his unwanted advances, which I may say is definitely the equivilent of a rape whistle for dogs. She uses it well, and sometimes a bit prematurely, but it gets the message across.

When we were robbed a few months ago she led the burglar like Sacajewa leading Lewis & Clark West, leading them to my grandmother's black pearls, diamonds, and emerald ring with one slice of lunch meat and a wag. When stalker man entered our home she was sunning herself on the deck, all four feet suspended in mid-air as she dreamed about a 16 ounce filet. She is a gentle soul. Unless a beagle crosses into our sidewalk. Then it's game on. If people can be racist on the basis of skin alone, then dogs can be breedist based on breed alone. Word to the wise: if you are a beagle, do not, repeat, do not walk on the sidewalk on either side of our house. You will be growled, howled, and barked at until you quiver under her ferocious presence. Then Doodle will go find a ball, nudge it in my direction, and curse at me until it's thrown.

I have learned a lot of great lessons from this pooch and her vocabulary, but when it comes down to it, she has taught my kids how to love and respect a life, even if it is cursing from it's snout to FROW IT!