The Little Pack

One night while my husband was away on business, I got home late, let the dogs out and made dinner. Cheyenne stayed outside. I sat down on the couch after a long day. A thought crossed my mind to find Cheyenne but then I think, what’s the worst thing she could be doing? Digging to China? I decide to deal with it after I eat. Seriously, when will I learn not to tempt fate?

She comes back to the slider door on her own. Immediately, I assume my earlier fears were completely unfounded. I could not have been more wrong. I let her in, sit back on the couch and continue eating when I suddenly smell the worst smell in the world. I smell my food wondering if I somehow failed to notice it was rotten… it’s not the food.

Logically since Cheyenne is the only new element in the room, the smell must be coming from her. I smell Cheyenne but it doesn’t seem to be coming from her. I sniff the couch; it’s not the couch. I get up and look for a pile of dog poop, wondering if Jackson just had a bizarre case of explosive diarrhea. I see nothing. I make Cheyenne go outside to limit the number of variables. The smell is still around so I make Jackson lay down, and inspect him everywhere, if you get my drift, and although I see no evidence of this mythical diarrhea, I literally sniff his butt, ruling out gas and diarrhea in one fell swoop. I have set his neuroses into overdrive, and he hides submissively in the corner.

Now IO sniffs the exact spot Cheyenne laid in, and the smell, although still present, has dissipated ever so slightly. Cheyenne waits at the slider, and when I let her back in, the smell almost knocks me over. It is 9 o’clock at night and there is no way in hell that she can stay in this condition for any length of time. This is the worst smell ever. Since I see no evidence of poop on her body, and because no horses or cows randomly roam through in our yard, I deduce that a dead animal of some sort is probably the source of this aroma.

Solutions start racing through my head. I realize I have one option only—the coin-operated dog wash down the street. I begin to literally pray (amazing how religious I become in times of need) that it is still open.

I herd her out the door, round up IO and Jack, find a towel and grab my purse. I load up the big dogs and realize I need to take off her electric collar, which I do and it is sticky and worse, now my hand smells like her head!!! Sick. I seriously want to go inside and wash my hands but I cannot leave her to rub her body all over the inside of my car. Besides, I reason that since I have to touch her to wash her I may as well just suck it up. Against all my better instincts, I leave the sticky smell on my hand.

Inside the car, I open the sunroof all the way and roll the windows down as far as I can without worrying about anyone jumping out (seriously the smell is that bad) and even though the windows are open and we are going 55 mph I can still smell it. We arrive at the car wash and God grants my prayers. The dog wash is still open.

Up until this point Cheyenne has been very excited about her little adventure. But she now knows where we are and she is not happy. She despises being wet. This must be the Basenji in her.

I coax her out of the car and into the dog wash. She refuses to walk up the ramp so I, ewwww, have to pick her up. I hook her to the safety chain and attempt to put my money in the bill collector.  It accepts coins only, and wouldn’t you know, I only have cash. Are you F-ing kidding me?? Desperately, I look around. I locate a bill changer—outside. Meanwhile Cheyenne desperately tries to escape by jumping over the edge of the trough. If I leave her alone she will hang herself. So, she will have to come with me. I unhook her, re-leash her, and yes, obtain $20 worth of quarters, exactly what I wanted. I take her back inside.

The second time around, she knows for sure she wants nothing to do with this process. She is even more unruly than before and fights me every step of the way. An enormous spider crawls up and down the wall. Normally this terrifies me, but, for once, it is the least of my worries. As I scrub her, I really try not to think about why her fur is sticky. She has the most forlorn expression so I remind her these are the consequences of her actions. When we leave, I can see she’s devastated by the loss of her hard-earned “perfume”.

On the way home Kid Rock’s “All Summer Long” comes on the radio and I blare it, just laughing my head off and singing along. As strange as it sounds I thank whatever it is that I thank for this spirited dog. I feel a peculiar, yet deep sense of joy. When I close my eyes that night, I fall asleep right away in a contently tired way.

The next morning I am smart enough to keep her on the leash and she leads me straight to her treasure, a rodent of some sort with half of its hair licked off its body.

I thought that I knew everything about having a dog, that there was no dog I couldn’t train, nothing I couldn’t conquer. I trusted my instincts would see me through. Indeed, a lot of my identity was tied up in being great with dogs. Truth be told, I fancied myself a Dog Whisperer. And then, along came Cheyenne. Two and a half years later, Cheyenne’s only 2 “tricks” are “Sit” and “High Five”. “High Five” occurs without fail, because there is a treat. “Sit” occurs 98% of the time, and of the successful attempts, most of those occur with additional prompting, such as “What do you need to do?” and/or gentle tapping on her flank. Often “Sit” is successful because there is something that she wants involved, such as treat, her dinner, or to go outside. Other inconvenient commands such as “lay” and “come” have about a 50% success rate. It is not that she doesn’t know what they mean. She just absolutely cannot figure out why she should lay down when she is doing something else, like, say, pawing at my face, or chasing the kitty, or sitting. The best part is that my 2 perfect angel dogs have learned by her example instead of the other way around and frequently ignore my increasingly frantic pleas to listen. I have learned the truth and that is that the serene pack leader I once imagined myself to be was all an illusion, fostered only by the sweetness of my other 2 dogs placating my fantasy.  In retrospect, I suppose I had it, and by it, I mean Cheyenne, coming to me.

Let me start by explaining that I understand, or more accurately thought I understood, dogs with issues. Jackson, my Border collie, was an emotional wreck when I adopted him. He was terrified of everything, most notably stairs and riding in the car. I worked tirelessly to get him over both fears. I learned what motivated him, I encouraged him, supported, pushed and comforted him. We sat in the car without it running, I treated his motion sickness and I was patient and encouraging, and he not only conquered these fears but worshipped me in the process. I let his adoration go to my head. Looking back, I was probably quite smug; I thought I knew it all. I expected Cheyenne to react the same way, grateful, hanging on to my every wish, existing only for me. I had no idea what was in store for me or the ways that my life would change. The thing is that somewhere in between the many, and I do mean many, eaten shoes, chewed up couches, shredded blankets, books, pens, holes in the backyard, chases through the neighborhood, small rodent kills, and rolling and eating decaying creatures and feces, this little brown spotted dog has run away with my heart.

We went out for a little while tonight. Jack hadn’t finished his dinner–shocking, I know–so we picked it up and left it on the dining room table. Big mistake. We came home to a chair pulled away from the table and half chewed dog food spit all over the table. Which means:

1. One of the dogs is capable of pulling out the chair.
2. Which means one of the dogs is smart enough to use said chair to climb up on the table.
3. Which means one of the dogs was on top of the table. Eating.
4. One dog in particular spits half chewed pieces of dog food around her bowl while eating.
5. That dog, unsurprising, is Cheyenne.

So we think that she was on top of the table eating and watching out the window and when we came home, she quick spit it all out and came to greet us. Sigh… will she ever cease to amaze us?

I have noticed that Cheyenne responds better to visual cues than verbal ones. If I have her attention, she will respond almost without fail if I use a visual command rather than speaking it. If I hold my hand up, or tap her rump, she will sit. If I point, or tap the floor, she lays down. I am learning to be patient and just wait after asking her to do something. Most of the time she will do what I have asked, although sometimes only after an exaggerated delay. I can only assume this is evidence of her sight hound heredity.

She is finally begining to act like a teenager instead of puppy. She still has her moments though. We have seen quite a transition since Dixie came to live with us. Now Dixie is the newcomer, and because she associates herself with IO and Jack, by default, she is graduating into a “big dog.” I am amazed that she is beginning to take direction and have high hopes that in another 6 months or so, she will be a really good dog.

At 3 and 1/2 years old (she has been with us for 2 1/2 of those years), Cheyenne has suddenly learned to bark. Until this point, we have heard quite a  melodious range from little Cheyenne–from yodels, howls, aroooos, sighs, yips, snarls, moans, and groans, but never a true bark. Sure, if there is a stranger in the neighborhood, she dutifully (and may I say gleefully) sounds the alarm–with a howl. A few weeks ago, I thought I heard her bark, but doubted myself. Today, there was no denying either the sound, or source. She was not shy about about it in the least, it was a loud, proud, assertive bark, that she seemed to delight in making.