by Thomas M. Pender
In our decades-long parade of family dogs, my dog Duffy had to have been the most nervous. Kristi’s dog Brutus was probably the boldest. For many years, while we had both dogs at the same time, this was a recipe for bullying. Brutus, who was about five times larger than Duffy (and probably seemed eighty times larger to Duf!), loved to play. He loved to wrestle with the humans of the household, and even have play-snapping contests with our afghan Gillian. For years, he tried over and over to get little frail-framed Duffy involved in some canine shenanigans.
Our hero Duffy was not having it!
Whenever Brutus would come at him . . . or near him, for that matter . . . he would bolt to the nearest lap for cover. This puzzled the uglier dog to no end. With no concept of weight ratios, I’m sure he was perpetually stumped by the one family member who wouldn’t push back. Duffy, on the other hand, surely saw this as daily harassment. It recently occurred to me that one of the reasons that my dog and I bonded so well may have been that we both felt persecuted by bigger, tougher beings in our midst.
But every dog has his day. Every dog!
Early in our ownership of Brutus, it became evident that there was one thing, and one thing only, that intimidated the aptly-named brute. Each time the sky darkened and ominous clouds gathered, a show was about to begin in our house. Our security guard/stranger chaser/neighborhood dog intimidator became a nervous, scared, terrified ball of goo . . . and our wimpy little chihuahua loved every second of this show!
Upon hearing the first rumbling of each passing storm outside, Brutus would drop whatever food or toy or chew he was concentrating on, and look out the nearest window with dread. His face would whimper “Did you hear that?” Upon hearing the second rumbling, he would run, twitch, sniffle and slobber in front of whichever household human was closest (although preferably, his human, Kristi). He was visually beg us to make the scary noises and terrifying flashes of light stop. He would telepathically offer us money, vacation trips and seats of power just to make the world sunny and quiet again.
All to the silent delight of frail, exhausted little Duffy.
While the bulldog-mess-mix was running from Thor, my dog could typically be found either in my lap or on the couch, peering down on the symbol of poetic justice with a look of absolute superiority. Thunder bothered my dog not at all. It was Nature. Thunder comes, thunder goes. Ho hum. But this was priceless! The household bully, instantly transformed into a puddle of tongue-sweat over a noise. Duf knew, as I knew, that the bigger they are, the funnier they fall. Neither he nor I ever turned to attack an intimidator, but when one was proven to be just as vulnerable as we were in certain circumstances, we both reveled in it just as much. The fact that our mini-superiorities were temporary made them all the more tasty. It wasn’t that we became the arrogant chest-thumpers that we normally cowered from, it was just that the ego-leveling pauses would be just what we needed to remind ourselves (and our predators, of course!) that we all have our limitations. Even moreso, that what scares one does not necessarily scare all.
Neener-neener-neener!!!!!!!!!
