Uh…yeah.

Today, aching, tired and hungry, my husband arrived home, an hour late, to the smell of doggie poo. He looked high and low in Max’s little crate but the source of the odiforous-ness was missing. Where or where could the missing poo be.

Max burped. My husband gave him a “greenie” to freshen his breath.

It appeared that Max, upon deciding that no one was coming to relieve him, had relieved himself. And then, upon considering the prospect of being caged up with his highly offensive, smelly excrement, decided to eat it.

When I got home, Max bounded over to me, tail wagging and started to lick my hand. Although flattered by this rare display of affection, I had to respectfully decline the sloppy, goober-lipped kisses of a shit-eating dog.

Max, the mischevious.

I’ve never really liked dogs much or owned a dog, which is why I am always surprised at just what I will do for Max. For instance, have you ever heard the phrase “steaming pile of shit?” Well, I had never actually seen one until Max took a massive dump on a brisk October morning. I certainly had never scooped a massive pile of steaming shit into a small potty bag. Or, have you ever seen that commercial where the dog is dragging his ass across the floor of a doo-doo brown carpet in a shady motel? Well, I never realized why dogs do that, until Max needed a little help , well, getting unstuck. When he started to drag his ass across the sidewalk, I had no choice but to preserve both his dignity and mine. You got it. I had to double-bag it and tug.

Oh the joys of doggie parenthood.

But, despite the humongous pain in the ass that Max has proved to be – barking at all hours, ripping my favorite pants, scratching up my beautiful hardwood floor – I wouldn’t trade the experience for anything. Because of Max, I have become a little less self-focused and a bit more self-reflective. I’ve become a little more nurturing and a little more structured. I’ve started walking briskly because it’s good for him AND for me. I guess you could say that I’ve just started to take my time a little bit more seriously, and that’s always a good thing.

For six months of age, Max is a remarkably well-behaved puppy most days. He knows all of his commands, doesn’t jump up when he meets strangers, isn’t food aggressive or territorial. Our biggest complaint with Max? Barking and trying to swallow my pantyhose and socks. I’ve learned a lot from Max, but I suppose he’s learned a bit from me, too.

He was tired, cold and very hungry.

Tired because he’s a firefighter recruit who endures grueling physical training sessions. Cold because the homeowner’s association has decided to replace our floor-to-ceiling windows in the great room in the middle of winter. Hungry because I didn’t have time to shop this week. Somebody had on some serious grumpy pants.

Before I could get settled, the phone rang. It was my brother. We needed to discuss his marketing plan. As I stepped into the bedroom to take the call, I heard the commotion in the great room. Max, the Mischievous, had just stepped on my husband’s very…last…nerve. Dear Husband (DH) started speaking loudly, Max started barking. Then I heard the crage door open. Then, the inevitable.

“Oh, Max!” Max had peed in his crate. DH was not happy. He stomped into the bedroom where I was taking my call, gathered up a few things, loudly closed the baby gate that we used to keep Max out, or in, depending on our mood, and then marched back into the great room. After he had cleaned up Max’s mess, the crage door slammed shut. That was it for Mr. Max.

Once I finished my phone call, Max was sequestered in the bedroom in the crage we keep there next to the bed. Fast forward one hour. Our friends are over. Max doesn’t make a peep. We’re in the bedroom measuring closet doors. Max is an angel. No barking. No whining. So, just as our guests are preparing to leave, I suggest that we let Max say goodbye. DH gives me the evil eye.

We open the gate and Max walks out, stretches and then greets each of our guests.

“Oh, he’s so good!” they exclaim as Max sits patiently and allows himself to be petted. Then, he shows them his new trick. He knows how to “shake a paw.” How charming. Max is magnificent again. He’s so good. I massage his back (he likes that) and scratch his chest. He licks my ears. He’s so good.

“I wore him out today,” DH says. This is information I didn’t have before. I learn that Max and DH had gone to the park today, which is why Max is too tired to bark, whine or steal socks from the dirty clothes. What a difference in his behavior. The dog whisperer had it right: exercise, discipline, affection. I suppose I’ll need to get a doggie treadmill. The alternative is to get up early in the morning and let Max run, then take him for a walk at night. This thought does not appeal to me.

But this is what Max needs. Poor Max. We get disappointed with him for misbehaving, but it’s clear that he needs more exercise. It seems that my “poor Max” this week could be a “better me.” Through giving Max exactly what he needs, I’d be getting what I need to.

Huh.

I say all this because there’s something you need to know. When the entire Michael Vick controversy bubbled up, I wasn’t sure what all the hoopla was about. So he had a dog-fighting ring. Okay, it was bad, but worse things had happened, right? I mean, isn’t there a guy who MURDERED someone who’s still playing professional football? These were dogs for goodness sakes. I was one of the ignorant-ass people who thought that Michael Vick got a bad rap. Now that I own a dog, I’m ashamed of myself and especially sensitive to the needs of bully breeds.

After painstakingly training my dog not to be aggressive, I can’t imagine training a dog to fight. The idea is horrifying. Imagine the sheer terror that the animal, pitted against the rage of another animal, must feel. I find it hard to believe that anyone could be involved in the training or observing of such evil. I find it hard to believe that they could still call themselves human.

Expert dog trainer, Cesar Milan says that dogs don’t have emotions–that they only live in the now. Now don’t get me wrong: I love me some Cesar–but, I disagree. Maximus the Magnificent remembers, gets angry, gets happy, gets sad. Dogs are complex beings, just like us. Through dog ownership, we learn how to put something other than our own wants and desires, first. For me, my dog has truly been a blessing.

Today, 22 of Vick’s former dogs have been taken in by Best Friends Animal Society. This group works diligently to rehabilitate the dogs and train them to pass their Canine Good Citizens test. Upon passing, the dogs are then eligible for adoption. Dogs that are unable to be rehabilitated will spend their lives at the “Sanctuary” in Utah, where the animal society is based.

To donate to the “Vicktory” dogs, visit http://www.bestfriends.org/, or click the link on my homepage.