It’s come to this: my dog is on Prozac. Yes, you read that right. Ruby, my Pembroke Welsh corgi, is on Prozac. Laugh away. Tell me I must be crazy to put a dog on meds. My only defense is that talk therapy didn’t work.
Let me explain.
You may remember that I have four dogs: three golden retrievers and Ruby The Corgi. Anyone with even a passing knowledge of dogs would know that between three goldens and a corgi, it would be the corgi who would end up on a controlled substance.
My pets are like that Sesame Street song, “One of These Things Is Not Like The Others.” Here is what the goldens are like: fun, easy, friendly, happy, and loving, on a continuous loop. You could have three goldens in the room and not know it. They love to sleep. They love everything. Honestly, I kept adding goldens because I forgot they were there. You could be sitting in a roomful of goldens and think to yourself, You know, we need a dog.
The corgi is Not Like The Others. Here is what the corgi is like: sensitive, alert, watchful, picky, and feisty. If she’s in the room, you know it. In fact, you’re probably obeying her. Corgis are low to the ground, dwarf dogs bred to herd cattle, and Ruby has been known to herd the goldens, me, my daughter, and also, on occasion, the UPS guy. How Ruby knows what she was bred to do, way back in Wales three thousand years ago, is beyond me. I got her at Christmas, after daughter Francesca had gone off to college. Ruby was intended to replace Francesca, which is not working out exactly as planned. How many parents can say that their dog is on drugs, but their kid isn’t?
To get back to the story, Ruby used to be a wonderful and funny dog, but she recently morphed into The Terrifying Biting Attacking Dwarf. In the summer of the movie Transformers, Ruby got transformed. She’s like Saw, with paws. For some reason, she began to start fights with the oldest golden, Lucy, whenever that sweet old dog ambled into the kitchen, took a nap, or committed an otherwise unpardonable offense.
I admit to you, I didn’t handle this well. I’m the mother of only one child, so I have no idea what to do when my kids fight. I don’t know how people with more than one child handle this problem. I thought back to what my mother used to say, when she had to break up a fight between brother Frank and me, so I tried screaming, “Separate, you two!” But it didn’t work.
Also, “Stop or I’ll turn this car around.” But it didn’t apply.
Then I remembered that when we were really bad, my mother would take off her shoe and throw it at us. But I’m beyond that. Also, I missed.
So Francesca and I took Ruby to the vet, who suggested that maybe the fighting was happening because Ruby realizes that Lucy is getting older and therefore losing her position as leader of the pack. Evidently, Ruby wants to be the new boss, and will bite and chew her way to the top. She’s Donald Trump on four legs.
The sad part is that good old Lucy doesn’t care who’s leader of the pack. No golden does, at least none of mine. They say: You wanna lead the pack? Knock yourself out. I’m going back to sleep. You won’t even know I’m here.
So we tried to manage the problem, with lots of no’s, daily walks, and some calm assertiveness learned from TV’s Cesar Milan, The Dog Whisperer. I used to watch his show for fun; now I watch it like homework. I read his book. I bought the special Illusion collar, which I can’t figure out how to put on.
But in the end, I turned to drugs. Ruby is now on ten milligrams of Prozac, twice day.
Soon, she’ll be in Ruhab.