My dog ate our sofa today. 

This is not the first time a dog has eaten my furniture.  Twenty years ago a hyperactive lab I bought for protection after my apartment was broken into, also ate my sofa -  a beautiful antique ‘coffin’ setee of art deco design with in-laid wood and a red velvet seat that opened for storage.  I had spent hundreds of dollars on this sofa and loved it more than my boyfriend.  I named it Desdemona.  It was the only inanimate object I ever had a real relationship with, and the first piece of furniture I had paid full price for – the rest was stuff I picked up off the street on garbage day.  The dog, on the other-hand, I got used and on sale.  Not only was she rude and vindictive, but she hated me.  While I slept, she would creep into my bedroom and watch me until I woke up, and if I made any sudden movements on waking she’d lunge for my throat.

I came home from work on what would be our last day together (and my first full night’s sleep) to find pieces of red fabric, shards of chewed wood and what seemed like an ocean of stuffing spewed out all over my apartment.  All that was left of my beloved sofa was a splintered skeleton, and a piece of fringe that I later sewed to the bottom of a red silk dress in remembrance of Desdemona. 

Booshka, with bits of stuffing stuck to her wet nose, only wagged her tail at me.  My name-calling and reprimands were the only human attention she had received in the last 6 hours so she was thrilled to be yelled at.  I put a leash on her and let her drag me like a deflated balloon down the stairs, out of the courtyard and into the streets of the French Quarter (I was living in New Orleans at the time), where drunks, drag queens, and tourists parted like a terrified sea to let us pass. Since Booshka was 70 pounds of demonic muscle, she made it look like the leash was a necklace and I was a charm hanging off the end of it, and since we ended up back at the animal shelter, I figured it was more her idea than mine. 

The animal shelter receptionist was a black giantess with diamonds on her fingernails and an animal prod within arms reach.  Without managing to move one muscle in her face, she assured me that the vet would adopt Booshka himself, that he had a farm with lots of room where Booshka would have kids to run and play with. 

“Oh, yes, M’am,” she said, barely glancing at me or Booshka, “I’m sure it was a sad day for him when you took her away from us.  Mmmmhmmmm.”….

This was in response to my, “Do you think someone will adopt her?  I hate
to leave her here if the vet is going to euthanize her.”

Because Booshka had repeatedly peed in my bed, bit my neighbor on the ankle, barked incessantly, yanked my arms out of their sockets every time I walked her on a leash, and once pulled me into a toxic bayou that to this day makes me itch and search my body for rashes whenever I think about it, I chose to ignore the receptionist’s obvious sarcasm, and left the office with visions of Booshka’s farm in my head. 

I didn’t get another dog for years, but when I did it was a papered Rottweiler – a breed of dog I was told was as laid back as a pot-head at 4:20. I named him Jack Lester.  And to prevent a visit to Booshka’s farm, I immediately enrolled us both in a school where we were to be taught proper manners.  I was to learn to use my best imitation of Louis Armstrong when speaking to Jack, instead of the girly squeal the teacher accused me of having, and Jack was to learn, among other things, to sit, stay and walk by my side at my pace.

After 6 weeks of heavy training and incredible expense, Jack learned to sit for 2 seconds, to stay for up to 7 seconds, and to never, ever drag me around by a leash – unless we crossed a squirrel, a ball, a pumpkin (he hated the color orange), or, anyone or anything that smelled like pot (ironically, this scent flipped on his “kill!” switch, much to the annoyance of my otherwise laid-back friends).  Jack and I graduated with a 2.0 grade point average, which was probably why the teacher hesitated before handing us our diploma.

“Do you really think you got what you needed from the course?” the teacher asked me.

“Honestly,” I said, “I just don’t want him to eat my sofa.”

“Rottwielers don’t like water,” he told me.  “When he misbehaves, correct him by dipping your fingers in water and then flicking it at his nose.”

We could have skipped the entire 6 week course if he’d only mentioned this first.

Since it was impractical to walk Jack with one hand while carrying a glass of nose-flicking water in the other (especially the week before Halloween when pumpkins were everywhere), I decided to better arm myself.  Along with a lot of other characters in my neighborhood, I was a tree-hugging, ultra-liberal, vegetarian, who smoked organic cigarettes, drank too much – and carried a gun. 

I wasn’t exactly a poster child for the NRA, though, since my extensive armory consisted entirely of water guns.  I became so proficient in water munitions I could have been a professional consultant in the world of water warfare, if there ever was such a world (I bet I could find one on the internet).  I had 24 inch water launchers in the bathroom (not much water containment, but could be easily refilled during bathtime),  10 inch sports pistols in the car (short, small squirts of water for less mess on car upholstery), a Super Soaker Shock Blast for my purse (lots of water and reached long distances – great for deterring gutter-punks, as well), and a double barrel Stream Machine in the living room that let it be known I meant it when I said: NO DOGS ON THE SOFA.  I was an excellent shot in no time.  It got to the point that if Jack misbehaved all I’d have to do was act like I was going for my gun, Gary Cooper-style, and Jack would immediately freeze and reconsider. 

I had such good results with Jack that years later when my kids begged me for a puppy, I didn’t give it a second thought.  After all, I was a sort of dog whisperer; I was like those dog-training monks who rehabilitated wild half-wolves salvaged from illegal dog-fighting operations – only instead of soothing whispers and doggie treats I used guns.  And I knew exactly what kind of dog I would get at the animal shelter.  I passed up all the cute yappy lap-dogs and the adorable little puppies with their sleepy eyes and wagging tails, and stopped when I found one identical in looks to Booshka.  It was too late for the original psyho-dog called Booshka, but never too late to spruce up my own grimy karma with her replacement, George.  Fueled by a cocktail of fate, guilt and good intentions, I brought George home and loaded the water guns.

George arrived with hurricane season in Louisiana, and we were soon visited by a hurricane that, despite its low number on the hurricane scale, nonetheless damaged hundred year old oak trees, ripped off roof shingles and blew out windows.  More of a nuisance than a devastation, Hurricane Lily rattled our windows, took out our fence, turned off our power and gas, and destroyed the azaleas.  It was less like Mother Nature trying to wipe us all out with an apocalyptic flood, and more like Mother Nature P.M.S.ing.  The kids played games through the entire hurricane, Jack simply panted through it, and I made due with instant cold coffee and paper fans until the electricity was turned back on, but Hurricane Lily sent George over the deep end, turning him into a pantophobic (one who fears everything) stuffed animal.   To this day George is afraid of people, cats, balls, trees, bath tubs, noise, rain, windows, flowers, water guns (of course), and any sudden movements – and his coping mechanism is to hide under a table and play dead, which is pretty much all he’s done for the last 9 years.  People tell me he’s the calmest, most good-natured dog they’ve ever seen, but really he’s just suffering from PTSD. 

So, conveniently forgetting the 6 months I had to spend sneaking around the house like Starsky with a water gun trying to catch Jack in the act of some crime, and that George is not actually well-behaved but mentally ill, I started to think that perhaps I was just good at picking out family pets. 

And then we moved to France.

When our new French friends asked us if we would like the last puppy from their dog’s litter, I took one look at the tiny lab with fur the color of Summer wheat, and told them: “Mais, oui!”  All my friends are having babies, and now I would have one, too, and I would call her Daisy.

The first thing I forgot to think about was the size of her parents.  Daisy’s father is obviously half lab and half polar bear, and her mother may may very well be a black bear with a dog collar.  Daisy’s parents are huge, and Daisy (now only 6 months old) is already bigger than both of them.  The vet, our friends and even passers-by have all commented on her humungousness.  She is the biggest dog I have ever seen, and I’m convinced the only way to train her is to saddle her and coax her into taking a bit.

Oh, but Daisy is also exuberant, healthy, happy, playful, friendly, and smart – all the qualities we had hoped for – before we realized how big she would be.  Daisy doesn’t like to be alone.  If we put her in the garage for the night, she simply opens the door and lets herself out.  If we put her in the yard, she doesn’t climb over the fence, she just walks through it, leaving a Daisy-sized hole in the wire and wood.  When Daisy wants attention she doesn’t just wag her tail, she climbs onto our laps, crushing internal organs, collapsing lungs, and breaking bone.  When Daisy plops down on the floor for a nap it’s like a low grade earthquake – the floors quiver and books fall off the shelves.  When Daisy’s hungry, she takes the lid off the garbage and eats the contents, and when she’s thirsty, she empties the toilets. 

And when Daisy’s bored, she isn’t satisfied with chewing on slippers and pig’s ears – she cuts her baby teeth on refrigerators, blankets, satellite dishes, and sofas.  So far we’ve been able to prevent her from consuming them whole, but not before they’re rendered completely useless. 

When she was still small enough to manage, I would threaten to make puppy soup for dinner every time she piddled on the floor or attacked one of Willa’s stuffed animals or attacked George (mistaking him for one of Willa’s stuffed animals), but now she’s too big to butcher, and she knows it.  We no longer have a refrigerator to store the meat, anyway, which may have been her intention when she destroyed it.  And Booshka’s farm is not a possible solution to our dilemma, unless we want to go ourselves and leave Daisy the house  – the French have no trouble with doctor-assisted suicide for humans – they’re
always looking for ways to reduce the costs of medical care -  however, their love of dogs prevents them from even considering euthanasia.  I’m sure I would be brought up on murder charges, and even though we are considered diplomats, we are so low-level that we can’t get out of a parking ticket much less be shielded under diplomatic immunity for murder.

But even though I sobbed and screamed when I found my sofa in tatters today, it was a short-lived tantrum.  After 10 years of kids peeing, biting, teething, putting everything in their mouths from dead cockroaches to kitty litter, throwing up, making noise, escaping fenced yards, and never sitting for more than 3 seconds or staying for more than 7, maybe I’ve matured, because after I dried my eyes the first thing I thought was Thank God!  Now we HAVE to buy a new sofa! 

Our current sofa is faded and worn.  6 years ago a snake got into the house and crawled into it, never to be seen again.  5 years ago a mouse did the same thing.  It smells like an incontinent old man, and every time I sit on it I feel molested by its sticky arms and lumpy lap.  I call it Uncle Bob, because it reminds me of the weird uncle we all have who hugs us too long. 

So, it’s to the store for me – to stock-pile water weapons and to buy a new sofa.  While I’m gone, maybe Daisy will get bored and eat Vlad, our sadistically uncomfortable bed with the broken springs.