Rent-A-Dog

I was always a dog person growing up.  Probably because my best friend was a rat-terrier named D’Artagnon.  Despite his penchant for killing kittens, peeing on purses, and sneaking into other people’s luggage to eat entire boxes of their expensive chocolates, he was still – in my eyes – the most perfect dog in the world.


I had always assumed that, once I was living on my own, I would immediately get a dog.  Instead, I got ferrets.  Then I married into two cats, and eventually added chickens, bees, and mice to the mix.  While I’ve always thought that I’d miss having a dog, I’ve found that I’m really very happy without one: dogs – with their shedding and their need for exercise – are truly not for the lazy person.  I happen to be a lazy person.

Mr. C, of course, claims he must have a dog at all costs.  Luckily, he’s easily-distracted, so he’s usually forgotten about this passionate desire if I do something incredibly devious, like divert his attention with an episode of Octonauts.  Since Bee is slightly-allergic to dogs, it is fortunate that Mr. C never remembers to pester us about canines for long, anyway.

And then . . . inexplicably . . . Bee lost his mind.

Somehow, while surfing the mind-warp that is YouTube, Bee came across a video of a contraption – a sled on wheels, if you will – that lets you hook a few dogs to a harness to pull you at glorious, shock-absorbing speeds along sidewalks, bike paths, and even rocky terrain.  And suddenly Bee wanted one.

I was industriously working in the shop when he came out and dragged me in to the computer.  “You’re going to love this!” he predicted.

He showed me the video.  “Um, yeah,” I mustered, “that’s neat.”

He pulled out the big guns.  “I’d be willing to get a dog if we could get that!”

“Huh?”



“I mean it!  Look how cool it is!  Mr. C and I would ride along the Greenbelt all the time if we had one of those.”

“Well, sure,” I hedged, “but . . . you don’t even LIKE dogs.”

“I like dogs,” he said defensively.

I just stared at him with my special You’re-Full-Of-Shit look.

“Well, they’re fine,” he amended, “as long as they don’t jump up on me or lick me or shed all over the place.”

“I hate to break it to you honey,” I said, “but I think that means you DON’T LIKE DOGS.”

“But I’d be willing to put up with one if it would pull me on this sled,” he whined.

Why, oh why, must I always be the voice of reason?  “First of all,” I sighed, “it looks like you’d need TWO dogs – big dogs – to pull that thing.  Can you really handle two big dogs?”  I didn’t give him time to answer.  “And secondly, the new contraption would be really fun, I’ll admit . . . but probably only for about a month.  Then what would we be stuck with?  Another bike-type thing taking up space on the back porch and TWO BIG DOGS.  And THIRDLY,” I interrupted him, “I refuse to have a dog that has to sleep outside.  So we’ll have dog hair inside.  From TWO BIG DOGS.  What about your allergies?”

Bee thought about it.  “I know; you’re probably right,” he conceded.  He was quiet for a minute.  Then he called, “Hey, Mr. C: come watch this dog video!”

“What are you THINKING?!” I hissed as Mr. C ran downstairs and climbed onto his daddy’s lap so they could ooh and aahhh over the video together.

So then the getting-a-dog-pestering began anew, but by now Bee had again sort of come to his senses about the reality of dog-ownership. 

“But wouldn’t he look so cute playing with a puppy?” he still asked me a few weeks ago.

“Yes,” I agreed, “he’d look adorable . . . until he got bored or too rough with it.”

“I won’t get too rough with it!” Mr. C (with his bionic hearing) called from the next room, where he was picking the cat up by its hind legs.

“I want a dog!” he continued.

“No, sweetie; we’re not getting a dog,” I said firmly.

“Because Daddy’s alluwgic?” he asked.

“Yes, that, and other things.”

Mr. C thoughtfully pulled on the cat’s tail.  “Well, maybe we can get one when Daddy dies,” he mused.

Luckily, I don’t think Bee heard him.

Bee did, however, come up with a brilliant compromise.  “We can’t get a dog,” he said, “but maybe we can borrow one.”  So he and Mr. C walked over to a neighbor’s house.  A lady living on her own, the neighbor owns a yellow lab named Scooby who lives under the back porch during the day while his owner is at work.  The highlight of Scooby’s day is when school is let out and all the kids cross the field behind the school and cut through the walkway next to Scooby’s fence to get to their homes a few blocks away.  Scooby spends this time barking – loudly and repeatedly – at anyone who comes near. 

Bee and Mr. C returned after talking to the neighbor, bringing Scooby on his leash.  Scooby slowly meandered around our yard, sniffing and peeing on everything.  Mr. C chased him around, yelling, “Play with me!  Why won’t you play with me?!!”

Bee and I watched, a little nervous for both of them.  After all, Scooby was 15 years old, and probably hadn’t been near little kids for close to a decade.  So, not only was he fragile, but he was potentially grumpy.  Mr. C was also fragile, as well as rough.

“I don’t know who I feel more sorry for,” I whispered to Bee.

The next day Bee and Mr. C went over to get Scooby when his owner wasn’t home.  Scooby barked at them and refused to come out from under the porch (a voracious digger, he must have an elaborate lair down there by now).  I went over a few minutes later and managed to get him, but he was obviously nervous the whole half-hour he spent at our house.

He came a little easier the next day, but kept shooting imploring looks my way whenever Mr. C inevitably pulled him in different directions on his leash.

But, by about the fifth visit, Scooby was coming eagerly, was valiantly putting up with Mr. C’s demands, and was – in fact – actually running along behind Mr. C even when they weren’t tied together with the leash.

It’s been a great relationship: we walk two doors down whenever Mr. C is bored and pick up Scooby for half an hour, they play outside, then we return Scooby when the newness wears off.  It’s been great for Scooby, too: I’ve watched how much more puppy-like he’s become, and his owner reports that he has fewer digestive problems now and seems to have more energy.  That really makes me happy. 

The downfall is that Scooby is an escape artist, and our yard really isn’t dog proof.  Luckily, he’s very good (so far) about coming when called in such a manner where he can’t hear the desperation and fear in your voice.  But, since he will get out if left alone for too long, we have to be outside with him most of the time he’s visiting (God, wouldn’t it suck to lose the dog someone had since it was 6-months-old?).  However, in my attempt to look on the bright side, I am also happy about this, because it forces me to bundle up and sit out in the sun for half an hour a few times a week.  Often we eat our lunch while Scooby runs around, occasionally returning to us to see if we’re feeling charitable with our food.

So it’s really been a great experience. and one I'd recommend to anyone who's on the fence about pet-ownership.  The only thing for which I can’t find a silver lining is the fact that now, whenever we walk past his house, Scooby sees us and starts howling.  And it is one of those wrenching, soulful, I’m-howling-because-my-heart’s-breaking sort of howls.

So, in making things better for us all, we’ve also sort of created a monster.