The more character I see in animals, the more I adore them. By “character” I mean the quirks that make them unique, such as the dead-eyed stare my dog Dickie leveled at me when her bedtime came around. If I wasn’t willing to immediately jump up and turn off all the lights and devices at 9 pm sharp, she would glare at me, trot to her bed, then reappear every 15 minutes on the dot to look at me reproachfully until I finally gave in and went to bed so she could get her beauty sleep. Dickie wasn’t the only little dog with quirks: my Elsie got so excited by the drive-through window at McDonald’s that she jumped out of the car straight into the arms of the cashier. To be honest, I was so excited by the thought of a drive-through McDonald’s in China that I was practically falling out the passenger window myself, but Uncle Ma, the driver, was less than enthusiastic about having six kilos of puppy launch herself off his groin with enough force to fly in a perfect arc up and out of a car window.
I’ve learned not to talk about my dogs in public, or at work, or anywhere really. I start telling a story and I see eyes glazing over. I kind of understand – I’m no fan of long-winded stories about how adorable someone’s cats are – but at least I’m tolerant of the stories, and of the love people have for their pets. I may not like the fact you have pet ferrets, for example, but as long as they’re not an endangered species and they are treated well and kindly, it’s not really my business. What IS my business, however, is not you treat my pet.
Dickie came into our lives as a homeless, toothless three-week old puppy, too young to be from her mother. I bottle fed her at first, taking her outside to walk (and hopefully wee) on the grass.
Alas, that hope was in vain. But I still took her out dutifully every hour, hoping that this time would see the breakthrough. After a week or so she grew much stronger and started to look forward to the elevator ride down 23 stories (the grass, not so much). This tiny ball of fluff fit into the palm of my hand: most people oohed and aahed over how stinking cute she was. One on elevator ride down we were joined by an elderly gentlemen with his grandson, who was about 2 years old. Grandpa took one look at tiny fluffball Dickie and let out a scream, shouting that I could not bring a wild beast onto the elevator. I held my ground and refused to leave.
Grandpa started shouting that his grandson was afraid of dogs. Grandson, however, put his little hand out to Dickie, who licked his finger in return. The grandson laughed. This enraged Grandpa, who then shouted at the boy, “Are you or are you not afraid of dogs?” The grandson calmly replied, “Not afraid.” Grandpa turned beet red and shouted, “Are you or are you not afraid of dogs?” to which the grandson replied again, “Not afraid.” At that moment Dickie, ever the peace maker, reached out and licked Grandpa, who jumped up and back so quickly I thought the elevator might come off its tracks. He let out a scream worthy of a castrato and shouted, “Your dog bit me!” I opened up Dickie’s jaws and wordlessly showed him that my dog had no teeth. He then turned to his grandson, who was calmly taking this all in, and shouted for the final time, “Are you or are you not afraid of dogs?” and the grandson, apparently wiser than his years, replied calmly, “Afraid.” The elevator door opened, we disembarked, and Grandpa and grandson strode out, Grandpa shouting about the killer dog at the top of his lungs and threatening police action. I’d like to say that Dickie lived up to expectation and finally made her tiny wee-wee on something that wasn’t the kitchen floor, like some grass or even better, Grandpa’s foot, but she held it in until we got home. As I was wearily mopping up but yet another round of puppy wee, I told my 15-year-old daughter what happened. She yawned, her eyes glazing over, and said, “Well, at least it isn’t a story about a cat.”
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