Yes, we have a dog

At this point, I think it appropriate to introduce you to our dog, Zoe. While we have posted bits and pieces mentioning her, including her most recent unplanned hospital visit, it is time you the reader had a proper initiation into the life of Zoe the Dog.

Maggie is quick to inform nearly everyone we meet that we have a dog.  This introduction usually goes like this: "do you know what?  We have a dog."  When the engaged party inevitably responds: "really, what is your dog's name?" Maggie immediately will say: "Her name is Zoe, she's a border collie and she likes to eat trash." While both of these points are certainly true, some further breadth and depth is necessary to truly understand Zoe.

In December of 1995, I gave Lisa a gift certificate to the Minnesota Humane Society for a Christmas present.  We discussed wanting to get a border collie and one day, Lisa called me at work telling me she had bought a dog.  While it wasn't a pure bred border collie, it was a collie mutt, and Lisa fell for her the minute she saw her.  Lisa was out in the exercise yard with Zoe and as the were heading back in, Zoe picked up a ball that was laying outside.  The volunteer who was out with Lisa simply said to Zoe: "that's not yours," and Zoe dropped the ball and went back inside.  Sold.

What a smart dog we had.  We were so happy.  And indeed, she was a sweet, sweet puppy.  A funny looking black and white mutt with legs and tail just slightly oversized.  She was a lover.  I taught her to fetch the paper in about 20 minutes and she can still do it today.  She could tell her toys apart by name.  She slept on the bed because she would whine and cry if we made her sleep on the floor.

During our new dog parent bliss, we happily overlooked several telltale warning signs.  Zoe's previous owners had given her up when she was 5 months old.  They had named her Lady, and clearly even the early signs indicated this was no lady.  She had a tendency to chew things.  Oh, and she had an incredible amount of energy.

Over the next two years, these points were painfully brought to life.  This dog was perhaps a child of Satan.  She tore up her dog beds.  She ate a bottle of nail polish remover.  She actually chewed through an electrical cord that was plugged into a wall . . . while standing on the metal floor of her kennel.  She nearly ate a dog gate.  Once, when we had to put her in the kennel in the garage for a house showing, she tried to dig her way out through the metal floor, leaving her bloody and shaking.

Then, just as we were reaching the ragged edge of sanity, she turned two, and a switch flipped.  Sure, she could still run down a frisbee all day long, and yes, she snacked on the occasional coffee cup or Chicago Cutlery knife, but these things were manageable.  Again, we believed she really was a great dog.  During these years, we enjoyed a quiet life with our crazy canine, taking her everywhere with us, including on our first road trip in 1998-1999.  On that trip, she traveled 4,000 plus miles.  This for a dog who was car sick as a puppy.

All was well until Maggie came along (well, this may have been the trigger).  Then, Zoe had competition for the affection.  Then, things started to go bad, again.  In the autumn of her life, in addition to countless bags of haphazardly placed trash, Zoe has eaten coumandin based rat poison, numerous banana peels, Easter baskets (chocolate and all), an unimaginable variety of organic and semi-organic items outside, and the gold standard of "foraging," as our most recent vet so charitably called it, razor blades.

All of these incidents have blended together over the years and we have typically dealt with them through a mixture of frustration, disgust, and laughing disbelief.  Once we were battle tested, these foraging events became nothing a tablespoon or two of hydrogen peroxide induced vomiting couldn't handle.

But a couple of weeks ago, our attitudes changed.  That change occurred rapidly, or slowly depending on your point of view, as I stayed up for an entire night with Zoe as she vomited endlessly on the cold floor of Francine.  This was not normal.  This was not a bounce back after a quick bout of vomiting.  In fact, as I took Zoe to the vet in a bleary eyed stupor, I thought it might be the end.  I had never seen her so sick.  I thought our erstwhile companion might be through.  I was scared.

Hah!  Right.  All Zoe needed to kick a bout of pancreatitis was a short stay at the vet, a quick IV, some doggie drugs, and some special canned food.  Two days later she was back home with us as right as rain.  We were thrilled.  We loved her, spoiled her, and doted on her.  There is nothing like almost losing your dear canine companion to realize how rich she has made your life.

Shortly after her vet stay, we even talked about posting a blog tribute to her.  We would laud our unique, quirky, and indestructible nine-life dog.  We would talk about her being the unsung hero of the trip.  Always wagging her tail, never complaining, the faithful companion indeed.  Good thing we didn't fall for that.  We would have been just like that family 13 years ago who named her Lady.  We would have been duped.

Since her brush with the beyond, Zoe has learned nothing.  She has not changed.  She has not wisely settled in to enjoy her remaining days in peace.  No, no, no.  She has eaten trash, again. She broke in to the pantry at my sister's house with a canine sidekick and ate an entire bag of hamburger buns.  She ate half a bar of soap (one of her traditional favorites.)  And, needless to say, she has also suffered absolutely no ill effects.

All this brings us around to today.  As we were leaving for a quick trip to the Dairy Queen tonight, Lisa's dad says to me, "should we put those cans of dog food away?"  "No," I replied "she won't eat through the cans." Stupid, stupid, stupid, me.  You see, it seems that she will indeed eat through steel cans.  Apparently, the canned dog food from the vet had a strong impact on her.

So, we arrived home tonight to a back hallway covered with dog food, blood, cardboard, chewed up steel can, and a male schnauzer who I swear looked at me and said: "YOUR DOG IS X$#@!&@ CRAZY!!!!!"  And so she is.  She is also uninjured.  Sure she has a couple of scratches on her chin, a few cuts on her lips, and a gash on her tongue.  Nonetheless, within 10 minutes, she was licking crumbs up off the floor.  This dog has an unimaginable tolerance for pain.

The author Jim Harrison once wondered something to the effect of why we give our dogs ages in dog years.  You know, why do we assign seven years to a dog for every one year they live in order to get a sense of how old a dog is based on our perceptions.  He propositioned that perhaps, given the great contribution dogs make to our lives, we should determine our age based on the number of dogs we have had.  Based on this alternative age, I am nearly 3 full dogs old and feeling every bit of it.  In fact, I am going gray on my temples at 3.  

It is hard to describe how I feel about having Zoe as a pet.  She is neurotic trash eater.  She is obnoxiously pushy.  She is an incessant beggar and a relentless licker of every surface she can place her high mileage tongue on.  She is also one of the sweetest, smartest, most loving, friendly, and goofy four legged companions one could ever hope to have.  She is a go anywhere, do anything dog, who loves Maggie like crazy.  She has been one of the best dogs possible, I just hope, given life with her, that I live to see age 4 on the Harrison scale.