New dog forces new experiences

Growing up south of Canton, we had dogs.

A couple of them were named Ozzie after legendary St. Louis Cardinals shortstop Ozzie Smith. 

Bubba was a big, black-haired shaggy beast, and Blaze lugged around a mass between his legs that had to be a tumor.

Except for Bubba, who was part Alaskan Malamute, the rest were surely just mutts. 

We rarely, if ever, bought them. We usually got one when another poor soul was at their wits’ end and needed to reduce the number of puppies in a litter that resulted from an unplanned coupling of their female pet.

They ate Ol’ Roy dog food that came in bags the size of a toddler and whatever leftovers we had that ended up staying in the refrigerator a tad too long. 

Going to see a veterinarian wasn’t something they ever experienced. Not even Blaze had that opportunity, even if it would have made sense for him to have his goiter checked out. 

They were farm dogs. 

I loved them. They were my pets. But they were also just animals to me.

We didn’t let them in the house ever, and though it was sad, it was never surprising when one of them lost a head-to-head battle with a farm truck as they attempted to chase it down and bite the tires. 

According to an allergy test I had years ago, I’m allergic to everything. 

Horses, feathers and cats were on the list. 

The test also revealed cottonwood trees and the outdoors in general to be a problem for me. 

Additionally, dogs presented as an issue. 

My boyhood dogs were never a problem because they were always outside and not dropping dander all over my living space. 

My wife and children knew this, so any requests to get a dog were easily shut down. 

Then my wife found a local family who breeds poodles. 

Of course, poodles are hypoallergenic, making my allergies a non-issue. 

They don’t shed, and they are an incredibly intelligent breed. 

Once the children found out all this, they teamed up with their mother for a full-frontal assault of trying to convince me to get a dog. 

At some point, they must have caught me in a moment of weakness, undoubtedly worn down by their constant badgering and genuine desire not to disappoint them. 

I acquiesced. 

All four of us pooled the money in our piggy banks, and then Opal Elyse Vogts became a part of our family. 

She’s a white standard poodle. Though she’s a puppy, she’s already big. Nothing on our countertops is safe, and she’s sure to get bigger. 

Because she’s a puppy, her teeth are sharp. Think velociraptor sharp. I have the slowly healing gashes in my fingers to prove it. 

I’d never say so in front of my wife or children for fear of receiving an “I told you so” in response, but I don’t mind her. 

I almost like her sometimes, at least when she’s not chewing on my toes like they are Vienna sausages or biting any electrical power cord in the house. 

But if she keeps having doggy diarrhea in her kennel every time she takes her heartworm medication, a change is going to have to happen. 

Either she will have to use willpower to fight off those parasitic worms, or she’ll have to find a new house to live in. 

I can’t wake up to that surprise too many more times.

Dragging her kennel outside and hosing it off before dawn while my wife baths her to make her fur white again isn’t what I’d call fun.

Todd R. Vogts, Ph.D., is a native of Canton, a resident of McPherson County, and a media researcher and educator. He can be contacted with questions or comments via his website at www.toddvogts.com.

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