Many of us pet fanatics will admit that we learn life lessons from our dogs and cats, but few will go so far as to say that their role model is a puppy.
I will.
Let me tell you the story of Little Tony, my insanely plucky black-and-tan King Charles Cavalier puppy.
If you think you’ve got problems, Little Tony’s started on his second day of life on the planet, when his mother accidentally chewed off his foreskin, along with his umbilical cord.
Thanks, Mom.
I’m told he didn’t even whimper in protest, and this I believe. Nothing gets this puppy down, even though he’s more anatomically incorrect than a Ken doll. And every time he pees, it looks like a sprinkler went off.
All over his four legs.
Now, I ask you, if every time you went to the bathroom, you had to change your pants, wouldn’t you whine? No? Now how about if you had to change your sweater, too, and then wash the floor? In short, what if, most of the time, you could pass for a rest stop on the turnpike?
Not to mention that he’s missing most of what is some men’s favorite organ. And it was his own mother who emasculated him. It gives new meaning to the term castrating bitch.
This would cause psychological problems of major proportions in mostly anybody, or at least entitle them to a guest shot on Dr. Phil.
But Little Tony’s fine with it.
This is a dog who could be sending Medea a greeting card on Mother’s Day, yet he never whines about Mom or anything else.
In short, in all things, he’s relentlessly Cavalier.
This may sound tautological, but he’s happy because he’s happy. It’s simply an act of will, on his part. It’s not a matter of not sweating the small stuff; it’s not sweating anything at all. Ever. Now and forever. He’s just a rolling ball of good will, positive energy, and fun.
And as a result, miracles happen.
I say this because, if you recall, my dog family includes Penny and Angie, mellow golden retrievers, which is redundant, and the control freak of the canine world, Ruby The Corgi. Ruby’s not a bad dog, she’s just territorial, and her territory is the Northern Hemisphere.
If you live here, it’s only because she forbears.
Maybe because she’s a herding dog, Ruby feels the need to order the comings and goings in everyone’s daily life, and that includes mechanical objects. She barks if cell phones ring without permission. Computer printers produce major affronts. Vacuum cleaners declare war.
Because she has so much responsibility, it’s tough to be Ruby. She was on Prozac for a while, but that didn’t work. Maybe next we’ll try Pilates.
The problem is, she’s the world police, so she can never rest. She watches everything. She’s alert to every sound. She keeps dogs, cats, and chickens in line. She’s the one who tried to bite my old golden retriever Lucy, and I got caught in the crossfire, sending me to the ER without a bra.
But that’s another story.
Bottom line, Ruby doesn’t play well with others. When daughter Francesca’s new puppy Pip entered her universe, Ruby morphed into the ultimate Mean Girl. So I knew that if I got a new puppy, I was in for dog management problems, if not the battle of the century.
But what do you think happened?
What results when endless good meets endless, well, Ruby?
I warn you, my specialty is the surprise ending.
Ruby loves Little Tony.
Wonder of wonder, miracle of miracles.
From the first moment Little Tony set his tiny black paw in this house, Ruby adored him. They play together all day. They sleep together at night. They share Nylabones and tennis balls. They even share food.
They are BFFs.
I cannot explain this remarkable turn of events. It’s so sappy, it doesn’t even happen in greeting cards.
All I can do is learn from it.
Little Tony is my new guru.
And I’m never complaining about Mother Mary, ever again.