It happened a little over a month ago. And by “it,” I mean war. A war of wills, a war of power, a war over the Top-Dog title. I was stunned. I’ve never been one to walk around wearing my tiara. I do not particularly care for elitism. I’m perfectly happy with anyone being my equal. I actually prefer it that way. Ahh, but I learned the only thing I hate worse than someone attempting to bow down to me, is someone trying to make me bow down to them. And when that someone is a seventy-five pound dog, I have a big problem.
Rex, my son’s dog, has always exhibited a strong will and a mind of his own. I’ve always respected the fact that when he had his raw-hide bone, he didn’t want anyone to attempting to take it away from him. I sort of get that way when I have my Weight Watcher’s dessert. They are so small, and so good. I don’t want to share. And I’ve been known to growl if someone comes at me with a spoon when I’m trying to savor that tiny bit of heaven. (Just ask hubby or my son.)
However, the war wasn’t ignited over my Peanut Butter Cup sundae and not even over Rex’s bone. It was a bed. You see, the air conditioner went out in our house. My office, which is connected to the house, has a separate air conditioning unit. So while we waited to get a new a/c unit installed, hubby brought a mattress down and we slept in my study. My son happened to be out of town that week, so the arrangement worked out fine.
Rex slept on his doggy bed in the living room. But in the mornings, when I went to get coffee, Rex would storm into my office and snuggle up on the mattress with my hubby, the stand-in master, since his real master was out of town.
At first, I found it kind of funny that when I’d walk by the mattress and Rex would sort of growl at me as if to say… “This is the big dog’s bed.” But when his growl became a bit aggressive, it was no longer so funny or cute. Who did this animal think he was? Or better yet, who did he think I was?
Yes, I know that when he stands on his back legs, he’s over six feet tall, which means he was quite a bit taller than me. And having recently hit his one-year birthday, he considered himself a man. Oh, and because the two men in the household couldn’t bear the idea of removing Rex’s boys, Rex still had tons of testosterone running through his canine veins. A quick check on the Internet and I discovered that it was not uncommon for an unneutered dog to maintain a pack mentality and attempt to become the aggressor of the person he sees as the weakest link in the household.
Poor Rex hadn’t been around long enough to know the truth. Which is…When Mama isn’t happy, nobody’s happy! Plainly put, the Bitch is the queen of her doghouse, and you don’t piss off mama. We had a family meeting, excluding Rex, where I suggested Rex’s family jewels needed to be pickled and canned. You should have seen my two men, cupping their boys as if the mere mention caused them pain. Both son and hubby insisted that all Rex needed was some training. Not wanting to be the evil woman, I agreed to give the less evasive treatment a chance before the pickling began.
So son went and signed up Rex and his boys to Man’s Best Friend. Now, before he could go in for his intense training, he needed his last shot. So . . . off to the vet Hubby and Son went to get their manly dog his shot.
So picture the scene. Here’s Hubby and Son with their manly dog in a small vet’s office. In comes in a soft-spoken petite female vet. Can you guess what happened? Yup, Rex growled at her in an aggressive way as if to say… “Hey, me and my bros are hanging in here and you aren’t welcome.” She took one look at my two men and said, “That dog needs his balls pickled and canned.” Well, to be fair, she didn’t say it just like that, but it was close.
Now, since we’re using dog metaphors, can you imagine how my two men came home with their tails tucked between their legs when they had to tell me that . . . “Uh, the vet agreed with you.”
So the next day, poor Rex went under the knife. And when he came back, let’s just say he was a little shocked with what he left behind and what he brought with him. They had to put a cone collar around his neck to protect the incision. Now…still drugged when he came home, he didn’t seem to know where the collar began and ended. The poor dog couldn’t walk through the living room without getting caught on something. Son and I couldn’t help but chuckle.
So to summarize the outcome of this war, this battle of wills, let me give you the score. Alpha dog, zero. Alpha Mama, two. (Or if you consider Hubby’s comment, maybe I should say, Mama, four.) And after a few weeks when the testosterone is flushed out of Rex’s system, if he still exhibits any aggressive tendencies, he’s off to Man’s Best Friend. Hey . . . I’ll always respect his bone if he’ll respect my Peanut Butter Cup sundae. And I’ll forego wearing my tiara, but nobody growls as mama in her own home.
So, what about you guys? Any of you have pet trouble? Have you ever had a dog try to fight you for your Alpha title?