Stuck in Suburbia

(re-run)

My first dog, Pepper, eats breakfast, waits through Zumba for her walk, takes a nap, gets up for supper, and then takes another nap. She runs outside to bark at the neighbors’ dog and the dogs in the park, sometimes eating the fence. But other than that, she is a contented dog in Suburbia.

Then there’s Daisy. She had two lives with others before I rescued her the day after Christmas, 2017. We are coming up on six years together. They haven’t been easy. I used to walk her, but it was like walking a bull in a bullfight. She constantly pulled me toward some imaginary red flag. Then I tried playing ball with her instead. We did that for almost four years in the HOA park next to my house. Everything was fine until the day that she snapped and scared the living Bejesus out of the owner of a five-pound fluffball. How dare that tiny powder puff enter her ball area! She barked like a crazed banshee at the tiny dog while the owner kicked at her and finally scooped up his pride and joy. To make a long story short, Daisy is now on Prozac and has a rap sheet with the local police. The nice officer suggested that I take Daisy on stroller rides through the park.

You can stop laughing now. Daisy is a Jack Russell terrier, a born and bred killer, the fastest dog I’ve ever owned. She sometimes takes herself out for a night run if whoever coming in the door doesn’t get inside quick enough. Daisy will slip out and be gone for ten, fifteen, up to an hour of minutes before she’s worn herself out and is ready to come home.

She always gets a warm welcome in a sweet sing-song voice, even though the words coming out of my mouth might include the F word. She doesn’t know how upset I was, and grateful that she’s back home and not earning another black mark against her police record. Only three allowed in a 36-month period. After that, the officer comes to take her away and not to a farm upstate.

Daisy, I know three naps and some backyard ball-throwing isn’t enough to fill your long days. I know that you’d be happier on a farm killing rodents or chasing cows or whatever you’d do for exercise. Instead, you live at the end of a court where neat houses have manicured lawns and Lexus cars parked out front (not my house, just a sad Prius and a couple of American-made cars). But I digress.

Oddly enough, now that the doggie door has been relocated you don’t barrel out the door like you used to do. You had a long hallway to give you a running start. Now you have to zig and zag around stuff in the laundry room and out onto a porch, then make a sharp left to get to the back yard where the neighbor’s beastly dog awaits.

You are stuck in Suburbia with me, and you have been for almost six years. Poor, poor baby.