Not being one to jump into something without proper preparation, I began on a three year journey of dog research. Yes, I kid you not, I spent three years- at random times- digging through the doggie section at the local library. During this time, Charles came into the world followed 18 months later by number four, also known as Oliver. Deciding that 4 was the magic number for children in our household, and having put pregnancy behind me for good, we settled on a breed and called a breeder. Shiba Inu was the perfect dog for us. It had an average life span of 18 years, was impeccably clean, did not bark, was quite small, with the look of a plump little red fox was adorable, was very intelligent, and finally shed only once a year. After contacting a breeder and arranging a general time when we would secure our new puppy, we excitedly prepared for the event- we drove the 12 hours round trip to meet the breeder and inspect the facility, collected equipment and read dog training books. The big day arrived, and we drove the 12 hours again, to pick up our dear little Maya who was about the size of a kitten, fat, fluffy and quite brown. I specifically wanted a red shiba, and the breeder assured me that with time, Maya would be a beautiful and brilliant red.
And so began the descent from the peak of our fondest hopes, dreams and illusions, into the valley of reality where we now find ourselves.
Potty training was quickly and efficiently checked off the dog training list. This dog was super smart and it showed. We felt our dog training muscles flexed, stretched and ready to embark on greater things. On went the training collar and out went the first command "Come". Maya cocked her little head, ears moving like little independent radars, and gazed at me steadily. I tried again, "Come". I was firm. Then as par the instructions in the dog training manuals, I gave a little tug on the leash and thus the training collar. Out from this adorable puppy came the sound of a screaming toddler. She went from calm reflection, to the throws of agony. Jon threw open the back door and hurried out. "What did you do to her?" He asked checking her shivering body. " I didn't do anything, I have no idea what could have possibly happened." Jon touched her all over and then tried to get her to walk. She was limping, shivering, the perfect picture of death right around the corner. I quickly got her into the car and over to the vet.
The vet checked her out thoroughly, and questioned me with equal thoroughness. "Mmmm," he said with an amused twinkle in his eye. " I know what it is."
"What?" I was desperate to know. Had I abused her? Was there a DFax for dogs? " Your dog doesn't want to be trained," the vet said. He stood there silent. Clearly that was the end of the diagnosis.
"What do you mean the dog doesn't want to be trained?" I asked incredulous. This had not been covered in the dog training books. " I mean," he continued," that this dog is extremely smart and she refuses to be trained. There is nothing wrong with her." The vet felt the case to be closed end of story. I sighed, paid $45 with rueful glances at my perfectly healthy shiba who pranced out of the office like a Queen, and I was her humble servant.
I gave up on the dog training. I was insecure with book in one hand, leash in the other, and Maya knew it. Besides, shock of all shocks I was pregnant with number 5, which left me tired and irritable with no desire to spend time training an obstinate pup. Oliver, on the other hand, was completely enamored with Maya. They spent hours in the back yard together, digging up all vegetation and digging holes to their hearts content. Maya didn't put up with anything but calm petting from the other children, but Oliver could pull her ears, yank her tail, slobber all over her face, and she put up with it, and seemed to enjoy it, too.
In Maya's first year of life, I became in gradual stages aware that the Shiba I had researched all those years in the library, was in fact a fantasy shiba. We did not own the fantasy shiba, but rather the shiba of typical dogdom, who shed, stunk, barked, shed some more, was filthy, screamed, bit and barked when bathed, and shed even more. Did I mention the shedding? We had clumps of hair from the top of the house to the bottom. I was vacuuming the entire house daily. We finally had to engage the services of a dog groomer, where Maya faithfully got a grade of C and had to be muzzled for her bath and nail cutting. We made the mistake of initially using PetSmart where Maya picked up a $950 disease. We sighed as we paid the vet bill, reflecting on the fact that she was 2 and had at least another 16 years with us so maybe $950 wasn't a bad investment. We also switched to a nice private dog groomer, where we noticed Maya received a conduct grade of B. Jon decided that they were desperate for business and thus graded generously when he noticed big letters at the top of her chart stating Must Muzzle.
Maya was a hunter of all hunters. She hunted down birds, squirrels, baby possums-nothing was safe in our backyard. I had to give up on feeding the birds, because Maya would go crazy at the window trying to get out and attack. Some stupid thing would walk across the backyard at 2 am, and Maya would bark to go out at the back door. "Not my dog," Jon would mumble as he rolled over in bed pulling the comforter closer. I would mumble, sputter, and think all manner of violent thoughts as I pulled on my robe and went to go let Princess Maya out. Once the thing was dead- maybe 30 minutes later- she'd bark again, and I'd let her in. She then had the nerve to ask for a treat which I of course gave her. I no longer had illusions about who was in charge, and only wanted desperately to get back into bed before the baby woke up to be nursed. Jon was lucky enough not to have the equipment to deal with that, too.
By the time the sixth kid arrived, Gabriel thought her name was dumb dog. She began escaping out the front door, and would never, NEVER come to us. But she would happily go to any and all neighbors. Now this dog is a good dog- or at least I keep telling myself that. But she wants to be the center of attention all the time. And quite frankly, it is getting hugely embarrassing having the neighbors bring back our red furball. So I started handing out bottles of wine to assuage my guilt and their annoyance. This Sunday was the last, and I mean LAST straw. She raced out the front door and despite my efforts, elluded us. Of course the neighbors who caught her are the perfect dog owners. They spent hours every day of their German Shepherd's first year, training that dog, who now walks at their side leashless. Jon went over to their house to pick her up. They commented on her thick coat that needed brushing because it was shedding very badly and she was clearly overheating. I thought darkly that if she didn't want to overheat, maybe she should stay inside the temperature regulated house. As for her shedding, we do brush her, but not daily. The thing sheds enough hair to clothe a lhama. It's crazy. I guess I better have those people over for dinner so they can see that we really are nice people. It's the dog, not us. Really.
The end of this saga is that by Friday, Maya goes to the pound. There are several families reflecting on taking her, but I know that I'm not spending another weekend chasing a dog who's decided that I am not good enough for her. And that is final. Besides, she'd never get euthanized at the pound. I've read tale after tale of people who have tried to euthanize a Shiba and cannot do it, because of the reknown Shiba smile. Who can put a dog under who's smiling at them? And why does this dog smile? Because she knows when it's all said and done, she's the one in charge.
