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When your Dog is a Pussy Cat

Knocking on my front door unleashes Gordon’s inner-Hell Hound. My Labradoodle’s bark sounds like 200 pounds of pure muscle and gnashing teeth. Pitbull schmittbull. Beware the mean-ass Doodle.

Alas, in reality, he is a 60lb Muppet. We joke that if a robber ever came into the house, Gordon would proceed to show him around the house, pointing out where we keep the silver and jewelry as he went. If the robber brought a treat, Gordon would help him pack our stuff. About the only chance of protection we have, is if Gordon squiggled excitedly through the robber’s legs during his “happy to see you!!!” dance, the thief tripped, and cracked his head on the kitchen counter.

Simply put, our dog is a pussy cat.

It isn’t just his friendly demeanor that makes our pup such a pushover. Sitting in the backyard, watching Gordon make his daily sniff of the perimeter, we will spot him running across the yard, his back end moving faster than his front, nervously glancing behind him the entire way like he’s being chased by a Mama Grizzly Bear (a real one, not a Sarah Palin one).

He is, of course, not being chased by a grizzly bear. Or a mean stray dog, or a rabid squirrel or a particularly relentless Girl Scout selling cookies.  In reality, a scary leaf fell from a tree and landed on his rump when he didn’t expect it, sending him into a panicked sprint across the yard to mommy and daddy.

This happens about once a week.

If there is thunder outside, you have to be sure to switch the light before you go into any bathroom, or you’ll find a lumpy, furry bathmat underfoot. Bathrooms are the closest thing to a bomb shelter Gordon can find when the terrifying booming starts. This behavior started after we went camping at my brother-in-law’s hunting spot and he shot a gun with Gordon nearby.. As soon as that gun went off, Gordon stood up, said; “Thanks for the treats, gotta go!” and took off at light speed in the opposite direction. He had changed his name and was living with another family four states away before we knew what happened.

Side note: I have to give the best Thunder Shelter award to my last dog, Duppy, a white mutt who basically looked like someone’s beautiful Samoyed got loose and mated with the scruffiest stray in the neighborhood. (I found him, so I don’t know his parentage for sure, but let’s just say someone was clearly slumming.)  Once, during a thunder storm, I found Duppy under the bathroom sink behind a solid wall of undisturbed toilet paper rolls. He was a good 45lbs – to this day I have no idea how he got back there without knocking over the rolls. I swear he got so scared he teleported himself to that spot.

Back to my current scaredy-cat. We have a pair of Dachshunds in the neighborhood who take daily walks with their owners. If Gordon is on his perch in the bay window, he’ll bark at them as they pass like a big tough guy. Why wouldn’t he; he outweighs them by about 50lbs. Then, one day, he was out getting the paper, when he spotted the two old hot dogs trotting down the street. He grabbed his newspaper and skittered up the driveway in such a panic that he knocked over a plant on the porch as he whipped into the house. Two leashed wiener dogs 100 feet away had just sent him flying into the house like he was being chased by fanged demons.

Gordon’s other nemeses behind the glass of that bay window are the two or three cats we have in the neighborhood.  They walk right up on the porch and defiantly stare at him. He has a meltdown, growling and barking, punching the glass with his paws. He doesn’t fool them. Once he ran right up to a cat, who just stood its ground and arched its back. In an instant, Gordon went totally cat-blind. One second he was out for blood, the next second he was innocently wandering away from the scene of the oncoming nose-swatting, looking everywhere but at the cat. He stood two feet from the cat and refused to look at it, or acknowledge it in any way. Then he nonchalantly sniffed around the yard and came in like nothing had happened. Cat? What cat? I didn’t see any cat. Stop your crazy talk, Mommy.

We should have seen this coming. When he was about two we found Gordon sitting out in the yard, nose to nose with a baby bird just learning to fly. He lay there for 15 minutes, carefully snorfing the baby bird, and then he just wandered away. Even a baby bird didn’t see the point of escape from the Cowardly Doodle.

So basically he’s a Disney dog.  Barking, cartoon foam flying everywhere – and then in the next scene, talking to the blue bird sitting on his nose.

*Note to robbers: The wimpy dog story is not entirely true. If you broke into our house he would tear you limb from limb. He would actually tie you up first and torture you, Dexter-like, until you begged to be put out of your misery. Just so you know.


Amy Vansant

Voted Funniest Non-Mommy Blog by a Bunch of Moms I Got Really Drunk.Amy has been finding creative ways to make no money since high school.

5 Responses

  1. loudlyshy

    So I’m going back through your old stuff because you’re effing hilarious… and I must know: Gordon goes outside and gets the paper? Is that for real, or a joke? Because it’s hilarious.
    loudlyshy recently posted..I Wish We Had a Queen

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  2. Keyla

    My little terrified-terrier once hid in the cupboard with the pots & pans – the loudest cupboard there is… and she’s sitting there between the bread pan and the muffin pan. We looked for her for a good 20 min before someone heard her whimper. Why was she in there? Someone dropped a book on a carpeted floor.

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