Scooter the Wonder Dog: The Saga Continues

Scooter is a "Wonder Dog," as in I wonder how I got myself into this situation. I fell for the puppy thing and the earnest pleas of the kids and said "sure."

I was in complete denial.

I knew there would be smells and accidents and barking and poorly digested food eruptions and toys left on the stairs for the unwary. Nonetheless, Scooter came home.

Over time, he developed "syndromes." Fear aggression because the kennel clipped his toenails so short they bled and ached for quite a long time. Social anxiety because other dogs crossing our yard obviously want to invade our home. Food obsession because he'd been abandoned in a dumpster with 11 litter mates who fought over the same garbage.

Now Scooter has to be tranqed and gassed to get his nails trimmed (at a new vet, Dunwoody Animal Hospital, that completely understands his anxiety). His pedicure is way more expensive than mine. We have to be careful with garbage because he'll eat anything. And everything. And taking him to the Bark Park at Brook Run is a challenge because he shies away from the other dogs. (The really, really small yappy ones terrify him.)

So he's a barking, quivering, food inhaling, submissive peeing MESS.

Now Scooter is irritating the neighbors. When we accidentally leave the sunroom door open during the day, he stands tall on one of the chairs, casting a wary eye across his dominion. He barks nonstop: at squirrels and chipmunks who toss their heads at him in disdain; at neighbors' dogs free to roam at leisure; at the children next door who just want to play on their swingset.

It's embarrassing.

This is the same dog who KNOWS when it's time to eat, play tug of war with his chewy ball or bone, read before bedtime, and take a walk. At those times, he's pretty darned cute. Scooter is THRILLED beyond measure to go for a walk. His warbling song and happy dance practically shake the walls and endanger any low lying books or schoolwork. We have to use a "gentle lead" so he doesn't knock us down in his pursuit of every passing smell.

Scooter is with us for life. I just wish it didn't feel like a life sentence at times!

Scooter the Wonder Dog

We found Scooter at the DeKalb County Animal Shelter. He was purportedly 12 weeks old, abandoned by a dumpster with his eleven litter mates, and destined to be about 25 pounds when fully grown. He came home with us, a floppy-eared, silly-grinned mess.

And grew to 45 pounds of stubborn, dense, submissive-peeing, training-challenged caninehood. Scooter makes Marley, the world' s most impossible dog, look downright reasonable.

Scooter loves:

• Food. He lives to eat. He gulps it quickly, terrified someone will take it from him. He'll eat beyond bursting because his stomach just never feels full enough.
  
• Heat. Wherever there's heat - a furnace vent, the fireplace, the heat dish in the basement - Scooter will snooze happily for hours.
• Chasing his rubber chicken. We have a nightly routine. I sit in the chair in my bedroom and lob the rubber chicken through the door and down the stairs. He gallops down the stairs, snatches it, slobbers drool all over it, and returns it for another toss. Bonus time: tug of war, with me holding the head and him pulling one of the legs.
• Squirrels. His unattained goal in life is to catch a squirrel. Or a bird. Or the cat that roams lazily through the yard during his morning rounds.
• The Bark Park at Brook Run. Say "bark park" and he begins warbling desperately, lunging for the door and dancing in happy abandon.
• One four-letter word: WALK. Same reaction as the Bark Park.

Scooter hates:

• Getting his nails trimmed. He was kicked out of Pets Are People, Too because he bit a tech twice. So now he's cared for by the Dunwoody Animal Hospital, which prudently tranqs him, then gasses him. His pedi costs twice as much as mine.
• Rain. He'd rather hold his business than go in the damp grass, wet bushes, and anything beyond a light mist.
• Snow. It's just not RIGHT. The second he feels it under his paws, he's slinking back indoors.
• Fire alarms and thunderstorms. Both will send him to the corner of the family room, tucked behind T's recliner.
• Slightly ajar doors. He just can't figure out how to nose them completely open, so barks desperately to be let through.

That's Scooter. He's a handful. And the last dog I'll ever own.