Take my dog, please (National Post, August 16,2006)


I'm a judgmental sort of person, not the kind you'd go to for unconditional love (unless you were one of my three adorable grandchildren). Impatient enough as a real parent, I think I'd have been a resentful step-parent, however beguiling and precocious my charges might have been.

We've just celebrated the first birthday of one whose presence in our household provides me with confirmation of that suspicion. Polo is a yellow Labrador retriever, the beloved late-life "child" of my husband Ronny, for whom owning a dog until he shuffles off this mortal coil somehow emerged as a non-negotiable codicil to our marriage contract. So here the three of us are, cohabiting in a committed, but sometimes uneasy metaphorical menage of father, son and stepmother.

As a man, for whom reproductive options are projected on an endless biological continuum, Ronny sees the accommodation of new life in a home as an elective choice at any stage in life's journey. But as a woman bound by nature's timetable, I am more in accord with Ecclesiastes: To everything there is a season. Our children are out in the world, and I rejoice in their independence. Our previous dogs are in canine heaven, and I am content with fond memories of their loyalty and companionship. That was then, this is now. So Polo arrived when my season of voluntary responsibility for new life had long expired.

If only Polo were endowed with the biddable temperament and gentlemanly character of our last dog, Harley, love might have followed. Alas, Polo is no Harley, and without any aspiration to be. Since he will never read this column (although he may shred it to pieces along with the rest of the newspaper if we forget to tether him to his bolt in the kitchen floor when we leave the room), I candidly admit I see no prospect of ever loving Polo. So, while a besotted Ronny snapped pictures of Polo devouring his birthday treat of a dehydrated pig's ear, I sat apart, broodily reflecting on the many many many more Polo birthdays in prospect.

Polo isn't a bad seed or anything like that. He's quite affectionate when it suits him. But Polo has his own agenda, which never includes deference to people. He is neither trustworthy nor respectful, and cannot be off-leash in the house without constant supervision. I see his character for what it is (canine loser), but Ronny, misty-eyed with love, loyally defends him as merely "feisty."

Polo's real problem -- well, I daresay the folks at PETA, who believe animals are our equals and humans don't "own" their pets, would say it is my problem -- is that he considers himself the "alpha" member of his "pack." For example, he would prefer I sit in the back of the car, and must be forcibly ejected from the front every time he boards. Although much in our company and frequently exercised, he howls for more attention, day or night as the whim takes him. If not restrained, he knocks down small children while lunging at the biscuits or toys in their tiny fists.

Polo's cocky sense of entitlement isn't for lack of authority-building on our part. We engaged a retired police dog trainer and diligently applied his structured program. We pore over dog psychology books with the attentiveness of pregnant women consulting What to Expect When You're Expecting. We are consistent and firm in disciplining him. And yet Polo remains intractably ... feisty.

Well, at least I'm not bound to court his good opinion or nurture his self-esteem, the one great advantage in step parenting a dog over a child. After all, what can he do if I'm cold to him? Tell on me?

I keep trying to establish the pecking order. Today I knelt and looked Polo in the eye to assert my dominion over him, sternly intoning, "Polo, I am the boss of you." Polo stared right back (not looking away after a few seconds, as dogs are supposed to) and barked impatiently, as who should say, gangsta-rap style, "Yo! Talk to the paws, 'cuz the muzzle don' respect yo' laws. Now take me for a walk -- and don't forget the poop bag...boss." Ever heard a dog chuckle? It's an evil sound.

bkay@videotron.ca

© National Post 2006