Who let the dogs out?

Okay, so I am not a “dog person.” Actually, I’m not an animal person of any kind. Maybe it’s because we didn’t have any pets when I was growing up. But when I think of dogs, what comes to mind is all the negatives – the slobbering, the poop, the financial cost, the having to find someone to watch them when you go away, their constant need for care and attention.

This is why I don’t question my friends who have chosen not to have children. I totally get that when they think of having kids, they think of all these same things.

Anyway, I can appreciate that there are also a lot of benefits to owning a dog. Dogs can be really fun and affectionate. They keep you from being lonely and they can keep you safe. I never question anyone as to why they would want a dog. I just don’t want one myself. When my kids pester me to get a dog, I tell them that maybe we can get a pet once I don’t have to spend so many hours a day taking care of the humans who live with me.

Now, not all of my kids want to get a dog. Aidan sometimes says he’d like a fish, or a hamster, or a unicorn. But he doesn’t ask for a dog…because he is terrified of them. He always has been. He’s not just scared of big dogs. He’s scared of every dog, even if it is on a leash, even if it is shaking and appears to be 150 years old, even if it is wearing a tiny Burberry sweater and sitting in an heiress’s purse.

Aidan’s fear seems perfectly reasonable to me. I have always been afraid of big dogs, myself. Sure, most dogs are sweet and tame. But some of them aren’t, and you can’t always tell just by looking at them. Seriously, let me describe something to you: Imagine a big, hairy creature with tons of really sharp teeth and drool coming out of its mouth. It is probably going to jump all over you, and may knock you down. You won’t be able to communicate with the creature, but – be careful! – it will get more aggressive if it smells your fear. Oh, but don’t run! If you run it will chase you, and it is very fast.

Are you thinking, “Boy! That sounds like something I want to let sleep in my bed!”

So I have no problem with the fact that Aidan is afraid of dogs. It seems eminently reasonable to me. But I am always amazed at how many people seem to think that this fear is something for him to be ashamed of. They ask, “Why is he afraid of dogs? He needs to get over that. Was he bitten by a dog once?” I always want to reply, “Isn’t the fact that you’re wondering whether one of these things bit him enough explanation for his fear?” Seriously, if he was afraid of dandelions, I would understand it if people thought that was weird.

Because dandelions are not known for biting children.

But usually I just kind of chuckle and say, “Oh, you know, dogs make a lot of people nervous.” Then I pry Aidan off of my leg, where he has assuredly plastered himself in fear, and walk him home.

I’m also amazed at the people who will bring their dogs, even really big dogs, around kids without showing any sensitivity to the fact that cynophobia is very common among the soft, vulnerable people under five feet tall. Of course, many dog owners are great about this. We used to go to the home of DwC’s very own Erinn every week, for a playdate. She always made sure any dogs currently in residence were shut away, so my kids wouldn’t be terrorized. And I can’t complain when we go trick or treating and someone sits on his porch with his dog, giving out candy. (Which is when Mack has to say, “Can I have a piece for my brother?” and point to the costumed fellow cowering at the edge of the sidewalk.)

No, I’m talking about the people who bring their dogs to an area with tons of kids, and let the dog run around without a leash. At our school, we have parents who bring their dogs right up to the doors when the kids are released, so every kid who leaves has to walk right by them. They seem to think nothing of it. At Reid’s soccer practices all year, there was a lady who would come to the field with her dog and a big bucket of tennis balls. She would throw the balls, right across the fields dotted with dozens of three-, four-, and five-year olds (and their older brothers), and the dog would fetch them. The dog was obviously a sweetheart, and well trained. But the kids don’t necessarily know this, and some of them were visibly scared. (One even had to go sit in my his mom’s minivan every time.)

I can’t understand being so oblivious. My guess is that most of these people aren’t actually oblivious, but rather don’t care that their dogs scare kids, because they think the fear is stupid. On the few occasions when I have asked dog owners to leash their dogs or take them away – something I have only done a couple of times, even though our local leash laws are very strict – they’ve always given me attitude.

I can understand that if you are a dog person, and you have a pet that seems practically like a member of your family, you want to take that dog out to have fun. I also get that when you know your dog is well trained, you think being afraid of it is just silly. But I wish those people could hold Aidan after a big dog gets close to him, or chases him – to feel him shake and see the terror in his eyes. It is a real thing, this fear. It should be treated with respect.


A partridge in a pear tree

My husband Byron travels quite a bit for his job. Some months he is gone almost all week, every week. Most of the time this doesn’t bother me too much. It’s been this way for ten years. The kids don’t know anything different. I’m used to it, and I manage on my own when he’s gone. Besides, I really like all those Marriott points and frequent flyer miles.

But sometimes I really wish I had a husband who didn’t go out of town so much. Last night, for example, I really needed him for a two-person job, and all I could do was call him (in California) and get hysterical over the phone.

Here’s what happened. A little after 10:00pm, I came downstairs to unplug my outdoor Christmas lights for the night. My kids were all asleep, and I was thinking maybe I would eat some ice cream, watch some 30 Rock, and get to sleep early. I opened the door, unplugged the lights, and was coming back through the door when I heard a woosh and felt something fly over my head. It only took me a moment to realize that a bird had flown – dive bombed really – into my house.

I spent the next hour and a half locked in a battle of wills with that bird. I wish I could say it was a wacky, sitcom-style romp. But it was awful. I was all alone, chasing this bird around the house with a broom in one hand and a mop in the other. I have two-story ceilings in several rooms, and the upstairs hallway is open to my family room. So he would fly upstairs and bump around in the upstairs hallway, while I threw stuffed Christmas toys at him from the family room. Then I would finally give up, and charge up the stairs, at which point he would dive directly down into my Christmas tree. I would shake the tree to get him out, and he would come screeching out past my head, on his way back upstairs.

Meanwhile, I had the front door, back door, garage door and several windows wide open, as the temperature dropped into the twenties.

A couple of times, I got the bird cornered in the area where our kitchen connects to our sun room. The sun room door was wide open. I would drive the bird into the sun room, waving my broom, and he would go over and sit on the open door. But he refused to fly out. Every time I would come closer to try to knock him out, he would fly back into the kitchen. This went on for about 20 minutes at one point.

Finally I woke Mack and got him out of bed, even though it was after 11:00. I explained that there was a bird loose in the house, and I needed him to stand in a doorway and wave a mop at it, while I stood in another doorway with the broom. He “helped” for about two minutes, then went to the closet and hung the mop back on his hook, and walked straight back up to bed. I think he thought it was the weirdest dream ever.

This bird just did not want to leave. More than once I caught him sitting in the wreath on my (open) front door. But when I waved the broom at him, he flew in, not out. I just didn’t know what to do. I was starting to think about how we always wanted an extra bedroom and maybe it was just time to look for a new house.

Several times I tried turning out all the lights, hoping that he would be attracted by the outdoor lights and fly out. But he wasn’t going for that old trick. Eventually, though, he must have gotten as disoriented and panicked as I was. I had all the lights out and I crept up the stairs, knowing he was sitting on the banister at the top. I drew the broom back and – wham – knocked him silly. Which has to be one of the most shocking moments of my life. I am often mocked because I can never kill flies with the fly swatter – I always hesitate that fraction of a second too long. I don’t have the killer instinct.

The injured bird managed to get downstairs one more time, and camped atop a family room window. I ran down and trapped him under my broom. Then I climbed on a table, opened the window with one hand, ripped down the curtain rod, kicked out the screen with my bare foot and…stopped. What now? I’ve got the bird trapped above the window, but I have to get him over the window ledge and out the window. While standing on a table. Without letting him fly away. And it is still pitch black in the house.

The phone started ringing. Obviously, I couldn’t move to go answer it. So the machine picked up, and it was Byron, leaving a message, but a short one because it was “really loud in this restaurant.”

My utter resentment gave me renewed strength. I managed to reach a blanket rack with my left foot, and grabbed a blanket with my toes. I used it to make a kind of chute from the broom to the open window, held the side down, and went for it. There was some movement and my enemy went out the window. I think. I’m only about 98% sure (it was dark, and there was a blanket in my face and I don’t know whether he could still fly). I’m still jumping at every noise. I didn’t sleep very well last night either, out of anxiety and guilt.

We all came down for breakfast this morning and the room was just how I left it: curtains and rod pooled on the floor, screen lying in the backyard, blankets and toys strewn around the carpet. Small feathers were scattered about. The boys asked what happened and I told them about my adventure the night before. I didn’t want them to worry about it happening again, so I stressed how I had run upstairs and shut their doors right away, to save them from the deranged bird. I thought maybe they would thank me.

But no, six-year-old Aidan starts telling a whole story about how that bird probably just turned 18. And he “wanted to go out on a trip by himself, but his parents didn’t want him to go. He said, ‘I’m 18. I will be fine.’ So they let him go. And then he never came back.” They all agree how sad it was that mean Mommy hurt the bird and how much the bird’s parents will miss him.

Nobody thought it was sad that Mommy had to chase a crazy bird around for 90 minutes, by herself in the freezing cold, in her nightgown. Oh no.

I say the bird was asking for it.

But I did already go to Target this morning and buy a remote-controlled outlet, so from now on I can turn my Christmas lights off without opening the door. Best $6.98 I ever spent.