Topic 1: On the Dog

This is Milo:
He is a good boy. Yes, he is...
He is also our first topic.

Carol:

What's in a name?
We Hammonds have had a series of pets during our 37 years of marriage, beginning with Freebie, who was anything but when we added up the bills from the Los Angeles Humane Society, the neutering bills, the food bills, the…well you get it. Freebie was also the first in a line of pets with “ie” names: Annie, Lucky, Freddie, and Trixie. When Trixie died after a long and happy 18-year life here in Arizona, we headed back to the Prescott Humane Society to look for another dog-- not too young or too old, not too little or too big, not too meek or too macho.

Daughter Megan did the initial recognizance at the Shelter and picked out two dogs for inspection. As she moved down the aisle between the cages, something darted out from underneath one of the wire gates; it looked exactly like a snake with a rounded head and dark brown and orange stripes, but I realized it was a paw reaching out for attention. Megan turned to me and pointed at its cage, “This is one of them.” The shelter attendant grabbed a leash and we headed out the door with a bouncy, gangly 5-month old pup for a run around the Humane Society play area. It wasn’t really love at first sight for me, but he wasn’t too young or too old, too little or too big, too meek or too macho, so we didn’t even bother to look at the other dog and filled out the paperwork to bring him home.His name was Milo. Hmmm.
.
If I had looked closely at Milo’s file in June 2006, I might not have brought him home at all. He was a double loser, having been brought to the Humane Society twice in puppyhood. The second owners had listed the cause for his return as a move to an apartment that didn’t allow pets. They also wrote that he was “hard to handle.” I suspect he just didn’t live up to the name they had given him, “Chainsaw.”


Four years later, and Milo is sleeping on the floor next to my desk as I write this daily theme, first in a family writing experiment. My canine friend enjoys a life of semi-rural routine that includes early morning walks with our neighbors and their dogs Cody, Sage, Kota and Tillie, exciting encounters with rabbits, quail, antelope, javalena and (unfortunately) porcupine, and lots of nap time on various beds around the house. In the evenings when the Hammonds settle in front of the television in our loft, he tries to get our attention by grabbing one of his squeaky toys for “throw and catch.” If that doesn’t do thejob, he begins his own Las Vegas-style trick of placing himself directly in front of the television, tossing a stuffed animal high in the air and jumping up to grab it in his jaws. He has been transformed into Milo the Magnificent. Chainsaw, indeed.



Megan:
In the nearly 5 years my parents have had Milo, we have only spent a few months together. I was waiting for my UK work permit when I picked him out at the shelter for my mother’s birthday. Actually, he picked me. I was looking at a spaniel mix when I felt sharp claws scratching at my ankles. I turned around and looked down to see a large puppy digging his paws under the chain link fence, desperately swiping at my legs.
I knelt down and put my hand up to the fence. He looked like a scary dog, that’s what I told my mother on the phone while he licked and chewed on my fingers through the gate.
Mom didn’t want to see the other dogs She waited at the end of the corridor while I brought him out on a leash. He jumped up and licked her face and tried to scramble into her arms.
“Call your father,” she said as we walked him to the dog park across the parking lot. Dad drove over and had a look at him. Milo, too excited by the new smells, patrolled the dog park like it was his job and ignored my father completely.
“He looks like a pit bull, “ said Dad.
“Naw… he looks like a shepherd.”
“Look at his face! He’s a pit bull. He’ll kill us in our sleep.”
“He’s a sweetie pie.”
“He’s brindle.”
“You’re a racist.”
“Fine.” Exasperated, Dad paid the $60 and I looked through Milo’s paperwork. He had been returned to the Humane Society twice, something about being destructive and he had been renamed to make him more adoptable. I tucked the paperwork into my bag. The puppy, formerly known as Chainsaw, climbed into my lap and stuck his butt in my face.
“That won’t seem so funny when he weighs 80 pounds,” laughed the volunteer behind the desk.
Dad turned around. “He’s going to weigh WHAT now?”

Now, at approximately 5 years old, Milo does not weigh 80 pounds. But he still sticks his butt in my face and sits on my lap. He looks out the window. He is submissive to all dogs and humans – but not to cats, ants or deer carcasses. He is also not submissive to me. I guess this is my fault, but I like to play with him on the floor and for reasons I am not completely clear on, this makes him the boss of me. He used to chase me up the stairs and bite my ankles, but now he’s supposed to sit and wait until the human reaches the top.
He’s not supposed to get on the furniture, not even to look out the window. If I come out of my room after my parents have left, I often find him curled up on the downstairs couch. He panics and leaps off, only to jump back up when he realizes it’s me standing there and not my father.
Although he does not respect me, he likes me. He greets me with impressive force and brings his toys to me. I dangle them high in the air and he leaps, growling and snatches them from my hand – or sometimes just snatches my hand. He takes up ¾ of my bed and all of he pillows. He does not like to be cuddled, preferring instead to lie on his back, twisted at an silly angle, paws flapping in the air. I think this means he wants a belly rub, but really he’s just cooling his bits in the evening breeze. He kicks me in the stomach, flips over and chews my ponytail. This is where the game usually ends, before I get hurt. Milo does not get hurt. He is invincible. He leaps 6-foot walls and hops out car windows at 40 mph, only to roll in the dust, bleeding from his head but wagging his tail. He destroys with his tail – geraniums, glasses of water, often slapping me in the face. He is a space heater and a farter and a sweetie pie. He has not killed us in our sleep, but once he dragged the baby across the room by the diaper. It was the diaper he wanted, he likes to chew on plastic. He has a white beard. While I was living in England, I missed him more than my family and friends. Sorry, but it’s true.