Beastly Cohabitation

By Kevin Gibson
January 14, 2009

Dogs are the best. I know, I know – we’ve seen all the cutesy little lists why dogs are better than people, etc., but really. As a society, we seem to love dogs better than we love people, and we probably should.

Think about it, if you invited friends over and one of them defecated on the living room carpet, you would never invite that person back into your home. You may even call the police on him and file a complaint. But if your dog does it, you swat him with a newspaper, say “No!” and then put him outside. Hell, you even clean up the poop for him. Magically, an hour later, all is forgiven.

Similarly, if your dog humps your wife’s leg, it’s funny. But if your best friend does it … well, you see what I’m saying.

My dog is named Darby, and he’s an exuberant lhasa apso about 5 years old. He weighs about 24 pounds, and thanks to his extremely thick fur looks sort of like an animated teddy bear. He also looks like a damn girl, apparently, because when they first see him, people always say, “She’s so cute.” That tends to annoy me, so my stock response is, “Oh yeah? Well, take a look at her enormous scrotum. That’s even cuter.”

Darby was named after a beer; it wasn’t until later that I discovered it is primarily a feminine name. But I like that beer (Fehr’s Darby Ale from Bluegrass Brewing Company), and it’s roughly the same color as my dog, so I thought it fit.

I mean, the poor dog was named Timmy when I adopted him. Timmy? Timmy is the name of the kid my friends and I would tie to the tetherball pole in middle school, it’s not the name of a dog. Perhaps I should have named him Budweiser, that’s far more masculine. But naming a dog Timmy? That's like naming a baby Spot.

On a recent Saturday morning, Darby woke me around 6:30 a.m., excitedly smacking my face with his furry paw. Again. And again. Finally, I said, “Darby, what is it??” Bam! Furry paw. Bam! Furry paw. I then realized I heard rain. And then thunder.

Here’s the thing: Darby does not like storms. So I put my arms around him to comfort him (he was trembling), then he snuggled in close to my chest, turned his body around and settled down, and laid against me with his butthole inches from my face. I thought, “If we get a decent lightning strike right now, I could be in real trouble here.” I decided to get up early that Saturday and make up some new house rules regarding butt-to-face proximity. They are posted on the fridge if you want to read them next time you come over … just so we’re clear.

I shouldn’t be surprised by Darby's fears, though –  this is, of course, the same dog who alerted me to his fear of storms just a few weeks after I adopted him. I was getting ready to go out on a Saturday evening and was preparing to get into the shower, before an oncoming storm was upon us. Darby was at my heels every step of the way, and insisted on following me into the bathroom. Fine, I figured it would be OK if he waited for me on the bath mat.

I turned on the shower and let the water reach the desired level of warmth, then stepped into the shower and pulled the curtain to. I washed my hair and rinsed away the shampoo, then wiped my eyes clear and turned around to pick up the Irish Spring. And there, sitting at the other end of the tub and slowly getting drenched while watching me politely, sat Darby.

This is also a dog who plays with himself. Wait! Not the way you are thinking. He has stuffed animals which he takes in his mouth and slings upward into the air, then chases. He literally plays catch by himself, it’s amazing – he throws the toy, chases it across the room, and then throws it again.

Perhaps this is why we have bonded the way we have; could he be an only child like me? I think that’s part of why I became a writer, because I spent a lot of time in my own head as a child, and it led me to creative thinking. Maybe playing solo with stuffed animals is how having no siblings affects a lhasa apso. I wonder if he’s also a raging alcoholic?

It also makes one wonder what dogs do when we’re not at home. Does Darby have his own blog out there that he updates, telling cute little stories about his idiotic master who sings stupid songs while making dinner, loses the cable bill, smells the milk before he pours it on Cheerios (even if it’s brand new) and makes glorious and pungent morning noises with the lower half of his body?

It makes you think. Actually, it makes me think that I really hope he doesn’t mention whether or not I play with myself.

E-mail me. OK, e-mail US. Darby and I are always happy to ignore your comments..