Waterdogging

Well, this morning we had it.

Our first throw down, ring-tailed, screamin’, bitin’ puppy temper tantrum.

That’s the only way to describe it. I suspect it’s in part because our little boy is becoming more of an adolescent. At his trip to the vet Wednesday he’d doubled in size, from 5 pounds 11 oz to 9 pounds 9 oz. When you go for a “walk” and it ends up being a “carry”, you notice that difference after a couple of blocks.

In addition to size, there’s a suspicion of hormonal changes. He now barks at strangers, sudden noises or anything else out of the ordinary to show he’s “guarding” for us, doesn’t come as quickly when you call him and has threatened to run into the street, meaning that he’s now confined to a leash whenever he’s outdoors, even just to do his business in the back yard.

We suspect he's surfing inappropriate sites on the internet, smoking cigarettes and experimenting with alcohol as well, but no parent ever knows for sure whether that's happening or not.  You just make rules, watch for signs and hope for the best.

This morning it all came to a head, though. I’d taken just about everything he touched away because he wasn’t supposed to be chewing on it. He was both under my feet and had seemingly disappeared at the same time, meaning I had to hunt him down.

He attacked my slippers. Plucked underwear from the laundry basket. Tried to turn over the trash can and chewed on file folders sitting on the floor by my desk.

Deciding we needed a break, we took the dry cleaning up the street about two blocks. He likes this trip, because he gets a treat from the girls that work there. It’s also our chance to work on his “riding” skills.

My rule is that if the dog isn’t seat belted in, he rides in the floorboard on the passenger side of the car. We haven’t found a collar and seatbelt leash that work yet, just because he isn’t quite big enough. For any big trips, he’d ride in a crate. I want him to learn where to ride when he’s not chained down, though.

You’da thunk that I had stepped on his head with all the growling and biting and barking that went on. I’m not sure what triggered it – I took a stale French fry he’d discovered away right before the fit, but that’s happened lots of times before.

Anyone who’s ever ridden in my truck will not be surprised to learn that there are stale French fries to be discovered. At times there have been jelly beans, skittles, potato chips and an assortment of other unhealthy food choices. It’s a truck. Get over it.

So he’s in his assigned seat when he decides that he can, in fact, help with the driving. When he gets pushed back to the floorboard, suddenly a Tazmanian Devil comes out and he starts barking and snarling and chewing and biting on everything he can reach.

Straw wrappers (which seem to migrate under that seat), phone cords, and anything else that lives in the center console. I’d take something away, he’d throw a whirling fit, barking and whining, and look for something else.

Fortunately, the trip is less than 2 blocks each direction.

When we get back home, it’s obvious that the temperatures and humidity have taken their toll on the flowers, so everything needs a drink. El Doggo Importante has the chance to wander around a little bit with me while I take care of this.

Except he won’t. He wants to run off where I can’t see him, won’t stay on the grass and is generally being a pill. Every attempt at correction results in another attack, with him jumping at me and trying to growl and bite.

Mind you, if he weren’t small enough to squish I might be a bit worried. The David and Goliath relationship, though, keeps me from being terribly afraid. I really didn’t want to smack him either, although I’m not above that. A gentle rap with a wooden spoon works wonders for instilling appropriate behavior levels in both children and animals. Unfortunately, I didn’t have a wooden spoon.

So I finally followed a time-honored treatment that my grandmother used to use, creatively involving whatever tools happened to be at hand.

I hosed him.

In Grandma’s case, it wasn’t a matter of being bigger. She was tiny. It was just that she had control of the hose, not to mention the undying respect of those around her. She also had a sense of humor that meant that any kid or dog that got within firing range was likely to get squirted at least a little bit whether they were misbehaving or not. It kept you on your toes.

I suspect if the preacher were there when she was watering her plants and gave her any lip, she’d likely have hosed him down as well.

As usual, it worked. We’re not talking waterboarding but I soaked him well enough for him to realize that I was bigger and I wasn’t pleased with his actions. Just like with us kids growing up, the reaction was immediate, the tantrum stopped and he was nonetheworse for the wear aside from a bit of sputtering and a shocked look on his face.

By the time I finished watering the plants, he’d all but forgotten about it and was ready to go in and get his cookie.

But the tantrum had stopped and he was a lot more docile than he’d been earlier, and he knows that he isn’t the Alpha Male.