Poop and Pee Games

Poop and Pee Mishaps

As promised, here’s the poop-pee blog. Do you know the dog owners that chap me the most? The ones I daydream that their dog one day will give them a big surprise, say, chew up their zip drive with their big presentation for the boss on it. The owners who used to smugly brag to me with a wide Grinch-like smile, “My dog, Pitsy, was potty trained in two days. He’s never gone in the house. Ever.” They say this to me after I inform them that it took Bennie SEVEN long, arduous months to finally get potty-trained. Then they look at me like I’m an unfit Mommie, who should be reported to the AKC at once, and poor Bennie as a mentally challenged baby.

Yes, it took SEVEN months. And let me tell you, this wasn’t the “Take Doggie outside a few times and he’ll figure it out,” style of training.

At the beginning, it seemed he was as incontinent as a career drunk, had the bladder of, say, a peanut, and the intestines of a piece of string. He had to pee more times that a pregnant woman, more times than an espresso-drinker. He peed more than I do at happy hour.

It got to the point of complete ridiculousness. “Do you HAVE to pee every four seconds?” I wailed cleaning a puddle up for the fourth time in one night. I couldn’t keep up. I’d banished ALL rugs, including small throws from the house. I remember one particularly low point at Pet-Smart when I was with Rob, staring at a mini-diaper, in blue gingham print, for small dogs, re-usable, for $26. Rob said, “Are you serious?” I was at the end of my rope.

Finally, this is what I ended up doing. I’d take a wind-up oven timer and set it to 15 min. over, and over, and over, and over again, back-to-back, for a period of 8 hours, 16 hours a day or however long I was awake. Then I’d take him out on a leash in the yard and say over and over and over until I thought I’d lose my mind, “Time to go pee. Time to go pee.” Sometimes, I’d get so bored of the mantra I’d change it up. “Time to go Pee-dee. Time to go Pee-dee,” until my neighbor, Leslie, opened up her bathroom window and yelled at me, “Pee-dee? What the hell is that?”

Ah, and if this wasn’t enough, it was during the worst winter South Dakota had in over fifty years, the kind that makes it into the Almanacs, with blizzards, wind chills enough to freeze Big Foot into a wall of ice, snow drifting under my windows, which leads to another problem.

Bennie, being a short to the ground chap, didn’t like his dingle to dangle in the snow. In fact, it made his bladder seize up, and he’d adamantly refuse to pee at all, his tiny nose held high into the air in disgust, sniffing at me. “I’m SO SURE, Mommie. Really?” So guess what I had to do EVERY day that winter? I had to shovel a mini-football field, all the way down to the grass, in my yard so he could pee. Nothing spells, Crazy Old Woman like me in a pair of Sorrells, robe and parka over that with a broom and shovel at 6:30 a.m., shoveling my yard twice a day, in fact, so crazy midget dog in a red sweater could pee.

But I wasn’t out of trouble by a long shot. Bennie carried a grudge towards me, that I was actually expecting him to pee and poop outside infuriated him. “Why does MOMMIE get to pee and poop inside but not me?” I could see him wonder as he plotted revenge.

To spite me and show me he could harbor a grudge, one night, he took it too far. He pooped in my SHOE sitting by the front door. Yes, he curled one off IN MY SHOE! Good thing I happened to look down as I was sliding my foot in to take him out the fourteenth time that night.

Then there was the time he pooped, without my knowledge, at an unidentified location in the kitchen. It was late on a Saturday night, and I was watching Northern Exposure re-runs. I should probably add that I’d been drinking wine. Not copious amounts, but certainly a bottle, with a fancy little plate of cheeses to accompany it. And I was having a grand time. I love watching that show by candlelight, the house decorated so festively and relaxingly after a long week at work. I sat back in my recliner happy. But as I sipped my wine, I thought I smelled something. Gas? Did Bennie fart? Was there something weird in the kitchen trash? No, it was nothing, I thought as I wiggled my feet happily in my fuzzy slippers. Then I got up to get another glass of wine, the room delightfully dark, the kitchen alight with only one tiny candle. I poured myself another wine and settled back in for my episode of Northern Exposure. Again, that smell. What is it? Ah, it’s nothing. Rob had said he’d stop by after work, and since he has a key, I heard him turn the key in the lock and come in.

“Hey, dude, it stinks in here,” he said as he took his snow boots off at the door.
“Yeah, I think I gotta take out the garbage,” I called from my recliner, enjoying my happy buzz. Then Rob turned on the lights.
“Uh-oh,” he said. “I see what stinks. You might want to come in here.” I sighed and set down my wine and walked into the kitchen. Bennie had pooped on the floor near the stove. Unbeknownst to me, at some juncture, as I was pouring more wine, I had stepped in it with my fuzzy thick slippers. Not only had I stepped in it, I’d trailed the poop not only all over the kitchen, but the living room hardwood floors, too. It was like a mosaic of poop decorating the whole first floor, more poop than anyone would think was possible for a dog weighing less than 8 lbs.

“Guess, you’ll be busy for a while. I gotta go,” Rob said as he put on his boots and left quickly. I guess he didn’t feel like helping.

And that’s exactly what you want to do on a Saturday night in your PJ’s and robe and poopy slippers after a few glasses of wine. To get down on your fours, say, like a dog, and mop all that up, re-wax the living room floor, right? And then wash out your fuzzy-poopy slippers while Bennie smiles at you, the taste of revenge so sweet.

It's Fun to Have your Dog Play "Bitey-bitey!"

Doggie Bitie, Bad Dog! Bad Dog!

One blizzardy night when Scott was here over the holidays, Bennie sat on the couch. I wanted him to get off, because it was forbidden for Scott’s dogs, Koe-Koe and Sophie, to be on my furniture, so Bennie had to get off, too, to be fair. Besides, I wanted to lie down. After all, I’m the Mommie. I’m the boss, the one in charge.

“Get off the couch, Bennie,” I said. “Come on, move it.” Bennie just blinked at me and let out his gurggly-growl noise, the sound he also uses unfortunately to say either, “Whazzz up, Groovy Mommie?” or “Screw you,” only you never know until it’s too late.

“Up! Out!” No dice, so I bent over, though not as fast as I should have, and tried to pull up him by his harness. Showing off in front of Koe-Koe and Sophie, Bennie decided to show them he’s the Alpha dog and no “Mommie” is going to tell him what to do, so he sunk his thumbtack fangs deeply into Mommie’s thumb. I wanted to holler and jump up and down in pain, but I coolly said, “Bad Bennie,” and with a swat, bumped him off the couch. Then looked, aghast, as I saw that I was bleeding on the floor like an infantry soldier.

“Wow, Bennie sure is a dickhead,” Scott noted. Now to another dog owner, this is like saying to a parent, “Wow, your kid is a really spoiled, rotten, jerky brat.” And while your dog/kid might really be a "dickhead" or "brat," it isn't fun to be reminded of this.

This aggression thing on his part started last May. Until then, he was the poster child for perfect baby doggie. He’d run up to me in the mornings, like he hadn’t seen me in years, rest in my lap while I read the paper. He’d cuddle at the drop of a hat. You could pick him up almost like he was a little purse and tote him around with you, and he loved it. I'd even take him to happy hour in a little Paris Hilton style doggie bag, where he could peer out one end and party. He was the perfect date: he didn't argue with me, tell me we had to go or make me buy him a beer.

Then, out of nowhere, in May he started acting like a little psychotic, rabid lamb especially at bedtime. I raised him to like his kennel, and for the first 9 months, he’d gleefully trot off to bed every night when I’d say, “Time to go to bed!” Then I’d lean over and lock his little cage, and he’d fall asleep. But then in May, he started resenting being told to go to bed. Like an angst-ridden pre-teen, he’d run growling, cussing under his breath, backtalking and P.O.’d that Mommie dare say such a thing. So I started letting him sleep on a little bed in the living room, to give him his own space. But the aggression/territorialness continued, when he’d be sleepy and you wanted to pet him, he’d growl/snap and say, "Mommie Asshole!" and he's now to the point where any time you want to do something that displeases him (like ask him to get off the couch when he doesn’t want to), he gets snappy to the point of taking a bite outta you.

The really interesting thing is trying different things to prevent this and asking people for advice. I’ve heard, and tried, EVERYTHING under the sun, including advice from the Godfather of all dogs, The Dog Whisperer. That show slays me. WHY IS IT that HE can say, "Tssst-tsst," and stand just in front of a dog making that noise, and the dog redeems himself, as if he's spent hours in a confessional, yet for me nothing works.

A student in class once offered, “We just give him a swat on the nose, and that does the trick.” I just laughed, like Bennie would do if he heard such a suggestion. “He growls anyway,” I said. Another student said, “Grab him around the jaws and tell him not to growl.” Oh, that one works wonders when the dog moves faster than a snake and sinks his teeth into you, I told her as the class laughed. Then there’s the 1. Time Outs in the Kennel, which Bennie just uses as time to plot acts of revenge, like chewing up my favorite technical pencil while my back is turned. 2. Ignoring Bennie, which just means he figures it is a good time to take a nap and dream about his girlfriend, Sophie.

Then there’s the classic, “Show him you’re the alpha-male.” As if. Yes, I tried the pinning him down, pretending to bite his neck with my hand until he’s completely submissive which takes ten minutes, sometimes longer. Then guess what happens? As soon as you let him up, he has complete amnesia and starts growling again.

I guess Bichons are like what the AKC says about them. They’re “willful” and “stubborn.” They KNOW what the rules are. They’re not stupid, but they’re willing to face the consequences. They will comply once they’re tired of the LONG punishment game. And then and ONLY then will they comply by the rules.

I know. It took Bennie seven months to learn this simple rule: “Peeing and pooping in the house is NOT COOL.” But that’s fodder for another blog!

Happing Biting!