The Best Bad Dog Ever

Moose was always a non-negotiable. From the very first “What If” conversation, Roger and I agreed that we wouldn’t move to South Africa if we couldn’t take Moose. Later, when the conversations took a more serious turn, Roger did some research, and apart from the extremely long and expensive flight, it didn’t seem like taking him would be a problem. Even Roger’s parents seemed excited to have their “grand-dog” around. He would love the garden; he might even befriend the cats. He was welcome to come.

After six visits to our veterinarian and two trips to the U.S.D.A vet, Moose had his paperwork in order. He also had an airline approved crate and an Air France ticket to Joburg via Paris. He would soon be the most well traveled mutt on the planet (not to mention the most expensive).

We drove to the air cargo section of Hartsfield-Jackson Airport on Wednesday afternoon. Roger went inside to make sure we were in the right place while I assembled Moose’s crate. I then put Moose on the leash to help him stretch his legs before entering his little prison. Moose, never a big fan of exercise, was unimpressed with this idea. After each lap around the parking lot, he pulled to go back into the car. “Not a chance, kiddo. You’ll thank me later,” I said.

Moose and I walked around the parking lot for at least an hour until I began to worry that my dog would be dehydrated before he ever got on the plane. By the time Roger came to get us, Moose seemed relieved to get into his crate where the exercise Nazi could no longer torture him. I cried a little as I closed the cage door. I cried a lot as we left the building and damn near hyperventilated as we drove away.

Putting Moose on the plane was traumatizing, but it did make getting on my plane a little easier. There I was at the gate, longing to tear up my plane ticket and go home, but I knew Moose was already on his way. I had no choice but to follow, and sure enough, when Roger and I arrived and our little family was reunited, I knew everything would be okay. Sure, my world was upside down, but at least we were together. At least, we would all be –

“Well, I don’t know how we’re going to cope with all these animals,” my mother-in-law exclaims. “It’s just a nightmare.”
Huh?
“You’re a very bad dog, aren’t you Moose?” my father-in-law says in a not unfriendly tone, then, “He’s a terrible dog, Roger. Needs training. It’s a shame really.”
A very bad dog? Terrible?

He’s a good dog, really. He doesn’t pee or poop in the house. He doesn’t chew shoes or scratch doors or even bark all that much. Sure, he whines if he hears voices behind a closed door. And yes, he may be slightly fixated with the kitten, but it’s not like he tries to hurt her. He just watches her. Okay, he stares. But why should that bother anyone? The kitten doesn’t seem to mind too much.

It might be slightly annoying to some, the fact that he can’t make up his mind if he wants to be inside or out. When it’s time for a little nap, he prefers the couch to his doggie bed, and good luck trying to push him out of the bed at night! Yes, he might be getting a little fat from stealing the cat’s food, and it’s frustrating how he adamantly protests his daily walks to the park, but he’s not a bad dog.

Of course, even I might have called him a bad dog when I let him off the leash to play with another dog at the park, only for him to bolt into the street, forcing me to sprint into oncoming traffic, screaming and waiving my arms like an idiot. Or when we left him with the maid at Gary and Laurel’s this past weekend and he howled at the gate all night. At these moments, sure, he might seem like a bad dog, but he’s not.

In fact, he’s hardly a dog at all. I’m not sure why, but this dog thinks he’s a person, and if you look at his behavior in that context, it doesn’t seem strange at all. Certainly a person would scream all night if asked to sleep in a garage with, ahem, the dogs. And what if someone tied a leash around your neck and forced you to exercise – wouldn’t you bolt at the first opportunity? And why would anyone sleep on the floor when there are far more comfortable spots throughout the house? Now, I know everyone loves their dog, but I knew it wasn’t just my biased perception when I heard my ten year old nephew ask Laurel, “Moose isn’t exactly a dog now is he, Mum?”

Connor and Moose

I’m not sure what all of this says about our parenting skills. Perhaps everyone should be a little frightened for the time when Roger and I decide to try our hand at another kind of child, but I still maintain that Moose is not a bad dog.

And even if he is, he’s my bad dog. The best bad dog ever.