Size and Fear

We’re approaching the two-year anniversary of our adoption of Mamie and we're still learning about her. At face value she’s a pretty straightforward little dog, even-tempered and undemanding.

          She’s a Coton de Tulear, a companion breed. And that’s what she does. If I go in the living room, she follows me there. Bedroom, ditto. Upstairs, right behind me. After years of cats, this constant shadowing is a little disconcerting. Before moving camp, I find myself thinking twice about it if she’s just settled into a favorite spot.

          She shows no interest in dog toys, does not play fetch, and other than an increased focus when a squirrel runs across out path, has no hunting instinct whatsoever that I can see.

          She defends her front door from all comers, but once outside stops dead on the sidewalk if another dog should come into view.

         So fine, we knew we didn’t have a Rottweiler here, but spending a portion of one evening waving a bug zapper through the house to calm the dog underscored the fact that we don’t have the bravest soldier here. 

Yesterday on the way to the mailbox we ran into condo neighbor Barbara being towed like a water skier in the wake of her dog Baxter.

          Baxter is a bouncy Poo of some kind – labradoodle? Cockapoo? Whatever he is, he’s large, curly, and looks to have the pull of a team of oxen. White, with black patches, he looks a little like a version of Mamie on steroids. Lots of steroids.

          With Baxter gamboling around, Mamie hung behind my legs, and Barbara tried to pat her. I said apologetically for the umpteenth time, “She’s friendly, but shy.”  

          Barbara cooed, Mamie moved forward a sixteenth of an inch, and I said, “In fact, we’ve found lately that she’s actually afraid of house flies.”

          “So’s Baxter!” exclaimed Barbara. “If we have one in the house, he hides under the table and whimpers”

I looked over at the 75 pound beast sniffing a nearby tree and felt a little better about our own little wuss.