Stupid in Love

A lot of dog owners claim their furry friends are like their children. I think these particular owners are bat-shit crazy. Nanook is not my child. He drools ... and chews on himself ... and creates pools of water around his drinking bowl that a small child could drown in. Let's just say I won't be driving around with a "My kid made the Honor Roll" sticker on my car any time soon. Who on earth would want to claim Nanook as offspring?

I don't understand the dog-child mentality, but I do understand the emotional conundrums that come along
with raising an animal. I saw Nanook grow from a foot-long ball of fluff to an 80-pound, long-haired beauty, and he witnessed me evolve from a ignorant, prideful 21-year old to a slightly more competent and humbled adult. In a lot of ways, we grew up together. So when he gets off his leash and runs at full speed towards oncoming traffic, I tend to get a little concerned. And when I'm bawling at 2:00 in the morning because I had one too many Cape Cods and decided to reflect on my life, he knows that snuggling with me will always make that weird liquid coming from my eyes stop. We look out for one another. 

That's the problem. Caring for someone else besides yourself is hard. It's worry-about-the-small-stuff difficult. Which is why I had an anxiety attack when 'Nook got his first ear infection. I know. I know. You're probably thinking, "an ear infection? Really? That caused an anxiety attack ... suck it up buttercup!" But you try taking an 80-pound dog who's scared of everything to a vet's office that smells like sanitizing spray and has large trashcans around every corner, and then get back to me about how that goes. Let me tell you how 'Nook's visit went. 

After a long night of head-shaking (if you've ever had a dog with an ear infection, you'll probably agree that there is no other nail-on-a-chalkboard sound than that of a dog shaking its head during an ear infection; the sound of ears quickly slapping the skull and of dog tags hitting one another during the every-30-second head shake: it's enough to drive a person insane, and signs of ear infections always show up at three o'clock in the morning ... always), I coerced 'Nook into the car with a treat and drove him to the vet, where he instantly became scared shitless ... literally .. all over the waiting area floor (hey, I get it, scales are scary). Cue boogie-man vet (a.k.a., a very friendly man with grey hair), 'Nook freakout, muzzle, and sedatives. That's the thing about having a dog who's scared of his own farts: he's not too keen on a stranger putting some plastic contraption with the sun on the end of it in his ears, and I don't blame him. But even with the sedatives, he would periodically wake up, kick like a horse and cry until a higher dosage was given. Over the past six years, I've never heard 'Nook whimper like he did that day, and I cried while waiting for his ear to be cleaned out and test results to come back. I cried when he came out wobbling like a drunk, I cried when I took him home and Lola laid next to him for the rest of the day, and I almost cried when his ear infection came back six months later, and the vet gave me meds without taking him in because he's a "special patient."


It sounds crazy because it is, and I'm okay with that because that's the emotional conundrum of being connected to 'Nook, who is always excited to see me no matter how shitty of an owner/girlfriend/daughter/friend/sister I've been. When he so much as whimpers, I obsess about what's

wrong until it's fixed. And yeah, I cry my eyes out when he is in pain, not because I look at him as my child, but because all I can think about are his 'Nookisms that would be missed if something happened to him. The harlem shaking during breakfast time, the heavy panting after a two minute walk, the look he gives me before exiting the doggy door, as if to double check that the door won't hurt him,  and (my favorite) the annoying sound of him squeaking the life outta his squeaky ball: these are the noises and sites of my twenties.

X & Y

I've always been amazed how the opposite sex functions. Several times, I've daydreamed of having a penis for a day, just so I could aim while I peed. I'm jealous that males get a hormone that literally makes them strong and females get stuck with estrogen, which makes us bat-shit crazy at least one week every month (sure, it's designed to make us better protectors, but really, isn't that why alarm systems where invented). I've read books comparing male and female brain development, and watched specials on understanding the opposite sex. But the best thing I ever did to process the differences between sexes was observe 'Nook and Lola.

Talking: girls thrive on conversation; guys tend to avoid it. It's been said that women talk so much because our female animal ancestors could only survive in packs (want to know why women go to the bathroom together? There's your answer). Where we lack in muscle mass, we make up for in social skills. Lola is living proof of this. That dog is one mouthy bitch. When her stomach starts growling, she barks. When she needs to go out, she lets out a gurgley howl. When she's knocked her favorite squeaky tennis ball under the couch for the 23rd time of the day, she whimpers. She knows what she wants, and knows telling us about her problem will get her results.

Then there's 'Nook. Much like the males who came before (and after) him, 'Nook doesn't make a damn noise, unless it's to bark at some random object (usually a trash can) to show he's dominant. He lays for hours on end, his head under the coffee table, not making a peep. He won't tell me he needs to go out, unless his bladder is about to explode. Even then, he'll mosey on over to wherever I am, and start breathing hard or huffing excessively instead of simply barking.

Nook also hates cuddling, or at least pretends like it cramps his macho-style. Sure, he'll sleep in the bed with Will and I, but he does so in a ninja-like fashion, creeping up in the middle of the night so he won't be noticed. We'll go to bed, with Lola snuggled up by Will's chest and 'Nook asleep on the floor, and wake up with 'Nook sleeping on our feet. Every now-and-then, I'll wake up, to see him slowly putting one paw on the bed, only to quickly pull it off once eye-contact is made. This, while Lola snored, probably because her face was planted firmly in Will's pectorals. 

But the biggest laugh for me, comes when observing their different bathroom strategies. For Lola, it's a wham-bam-thank-you-mam sort of process. She barks at Will to let him know it's time, then goes outside and quickly pees and poops. Not Nanook. You might as well give that boy a newspaper, because it takes him for-freaking-ever. First, he'll sniff everything. I. MEAN. EV-ER-Y-THING. Then, when he thinks he's found a good spot, he'll spin in circles, as if to fully take in the clean air before his shit ruins it. More often than not, mid-circle ceremony, he'll decide to change spots, take two steps, and start his process over again. It's time-consuming to say the least. So much so, that I don't wager Will money or sex anymore. I wager taking Nanook out.

Sure, it sounds cliche to propose my male dog hates speaking & cuddling, but adores taking forever in the bathroom. But it's true. Go ahead, come over and see for yourself. He'll be the one barking at you from a distance while Lola tries to lick your face.

Boy Meets Girl

When Will and I became serious (ya know, when we actually realized we had been together longer than a year, questioned why, then decided the answer wasn't important because we were having too much fun), I noticed something strange. He would start saying really odd things when referring to Nanook like, "I'm taking my dog outside," or "My dog is so cute." This went on for quite some time, until the let-it-go part of me couldn't actually let it go any longer.

On a normal day, after Will said something like, "You're the best dog I've ever had" to Nanook, I lost my shit.

In a very loud, almost screaming tone, I proclaimed, "Let's get one thing straight. Nanook is mine. Not yours mine. So, if we break up, he's coming with me, because he's mine. Not yours."

Startled, he muttered, "O.K.," then continued petting Nanook.

This is where Lola comes in. Shortly after this proclamation, Will moved to Savannah (probably to get away from my hormones), and decided to get a dog of his own. His. Not mine. So, we went to a friend's house who's dog had recently gave birth, and picked out an adorable six month old puppy we ... errr... he decided to name Lola. Will picked her because she was the only pup in the litter who didn't nip at our feet. She seemed calm. So, we decided to take her home to Nanook.


We found out very quickly that Lola does not have a calm, lazy nature like Nanook. In fact, she's exactly the opposite. She's a hyper, ear-nipping, bitchy, punching, adorably annoying dog. Yet, that works for Nanook. In the early days, she'd wake up, go to the bed that Nanook shoved his body under, and yank the hell out of his tail until he moseyed out from under the bed and played with her. She'd bite his jowels when she was bored, pull on his neck when she needed company, and tug on his ears when she wanted a buddy. Every single time, he'd give in, like a nerdy boy who was getting attention from a hot blonde.

The same is still true today. Lola can say "Porsche" and Nanook would give up all his dog food until she got it. The only thing he won't give her is his squeaky balls. It's kinda like asking a nerd to play with his Star Trek figurines. It's not gonna happen. But the two are inseparable. Even at the dog park, with twenty other dogs to play with, they stick together. It's a little sickening, but hey ... it's love.

Dud Dog

Caramel colored throw-up was everywhere. On the carpet, on the stairs, and by the front door were pools of vomit. At least 'Nook tried to make it outside.

It was the summer after I'd completed graduate school, and to reward myself for walking to class for the past six years, I had just purchased my first car. Ellie the Elantra: she was sexy, economical, and environmentally friendly. I wanted to show her off. So, I made sure she was spotless, threw 'Nook in the covered back seat, and drove up to see my mom in Atlanta. 

After a week of being spoiled, 'Nook and I prepared for the trek back home. As I was packing bowls and bags, 'Nook started throwing up. 

"Moooooommm" I yelled, "Help!"

She ran out and saw the damage. "Uh-oh," she said, "looks like it's gonna be a long ride home."

I was not relieved. 

Over lunch, I couldn't stop thinking about 'Nook's sudden illness. I took a bite of salad, and looked up at my mother. 

"You know, I just can't figure it out." I  poured more dressing on my salad. "I haven't switched dog foods. 'Nook wasn't around other dogs. It isn't adding up." 

She looked down at her plate. Here's a little dirty secret about my mom: she's a sucker for cute, pathetic looking dogs. She knows Nanook is the closest thing she'll get to a grandchild for a really long time, so she spoils him incessantly. The first time she met Nanook, she essentially fed him a whole bag of Spicy Nacho Doritos. It's so bad, he knows when we're going to grandma's. As soon as 'Nook sees my mom come out of her house to greet us, he runs up, presses his body against hers, and gives the best 'what-do-you-got-to-eat' look. When we eat supper, he gently rests his head on my mother's leg and works the sad puppy eyes. He knows where to go to get his bread buttered. 

"Mom," I say slowly, "what did you do?"

"Nothing," she replies, stirring her soup. 

"MOM" I yell. 

"Okay, okay. I gave him a treat."

"What kind of treat?"

She looks back at the table, "Milkduds."

I put my fork down in disbelief, "So let me get this straight." She starts to laugh, "You ... gave my dog ... Milkduds. You gave my dog chocolate?"

"He's cute." 

Luckily, 'Nook managed to recover quickly, and we had a vomit-free car ride home. But it just goes to show, looks cannot only kill. Beauty can also alter my mom's brain, and convince her that feeding Milkduds to a dog is the best idea in the world. 

A Stroke of Genius

"This place smells like shit," my roomate exclaims after setting her luggage down.

I set my laptop bag on the sofa, take in a big breath and begin to pet Nanook, who has decided to welcome me home by thwacking me with his furry tail, "It really does," Nanook is now licking my face, "does the cat litter need changing?"

Sabryna shrugs and walks off to change the litter box, while I go on rubbing Nanook behind his ears.
"Nook," his ears perk up,"you would have LOVED this place."
He whines.
"There was a big green lawn to lay in -"
'Nook huffs.
"and a long beach to run on -"
He twirls.
"-Oh! And lot's of frat boys to bite."
He barks.
"Fine, fine. I'll take you. Let's go," I say, grabbing the leash.

After a nice long walk and about three poops later (which is oddly usual for my special boy), Nanook and I come home to Sabryna, who is now sniffing everything in the apartment.

"Does it still smell like shit in here to you? Or am I just going crazy" she asks when we walk in the door.

"It does. That's so weird." I decide to play the sniffing game too, and go into my room, then the kitchen, then the bathroom with my nose in the air, inhaling fumes.

"I don't get it," Bry says, "I emptied the litter, and it still smells awful in here. I thought maybe 'Nook pooped somewhere, but I can't find anything."

"Yeah, that's what I thought too, but I don't see anything," I look down at 'Nook, who's conked out on the carpet after our 1/2 mile walk, "maybe it's just the litter lingering."

A couple of hours and two loads of laundry later, I decide to hop in the shower to rinse the travel smell off of me. I reach in through the closed shower curtain, turn on the faucet and grab a towel before stripping down. The smell of poop gets stronger. God, I really hope our pipes aren't backed up. As I pull the shower curtain back, I see it. There in the middle of our tub is a huge pile of poop. But this isn't just one 'Nook poop, it's multiple 'Nook poops. Nanook, in leiu of his dogsitter not coming over to take him outside enough, went into the bathroom, pooped in the tub, and left the shower curtain perfectly closed when he was finished. I couldn't even be mad. I stood there in the nude for a good five minutes laughing, before calling Sabryna in to look at what 'Nook had done.

"That dog-" she says laughing.

"- is a genius?" I finish. "He has his moments."

Nanook: 1 Alicia: 0

Cesar Millan makes it look so easy. Dogs on treadmills? Sure. Rollerblading your 110-pounder around the park? Why not? Just a simple tsssss here and a tug of the leash there, and you've got a dog suited to live with Queen Elizabeth.

The Dog Whisperer had just finished taming a wild pit bull who had a thing for lunging at innocent bystanders, right about the time Nanook started barking at the neighbor, who just wanted to get something out of his car, which just so happened to be parked in front of my window. I stared in awe at my television screen as Cesar worked his magic. Anytime the pit would so much as suggest he was going to move, Milan would tap the dog on the neck, and it would go back to calmly panting. At the end of the episode, Cesar handed the leash of the pit back to its owner, and proclaimed, 'You can do this.' A voice inside me agreed.

I looked at Nanook, guarding the window, then back at the screen "Yes," I exclaimed, "I can do this."

'Be the dominant pack leader," Cesar prodded.

"I WILL!"

Nanook huffed. But I was determined. No longer would I wake up at 2 a.m. because 'Nook was barking at the ice maker. Never again would my neighbors be afraid to walk by my front window. Yes, my 85 pound dog would be calm and submissive, and I, at 5' 1", would be the dominate member of our pack.

I started transitioning 'Nook to his submissive role slowly. He learned to patiently wait for me to set his food down instead of devouring it mid-air while it was still in my hand. I trained him to walk calmly beside me on walks, ears tucked back and tail lowered. He was becoming a regular Martha Stewart of dogs. But there was still one problem: the bicyclists.

Nanook has always hated cyclists. Every time one would ride by while we were walking, he'd lunge. It wasn't so much that he hated the people, just the machine they chose to commute on. I'm not sure if it was the wheels that terrified him, or the fact that bicycles are significantly bigger than he is, but to Nanook, bicycles might as well be the Boogie Man. When he's whimpering in his sleep, I'm pretty sure it's because he's being chased by a bike in his dreams. Which is why, at every opportunity, Nanook will try to fight bikes - with or without people on them.

I didn't know what to do. On walks, I'd tssss him before the bike was even beside us. I'd pull his leash tightly and swiftly as his body started stiffening. But inevitably, he'd still always lunge for the wheels of the bike, growling and barking and sending the poor innocent rider into a panic. I was at a loss. I kept on watching Cesar's show for an answer, and one day I found it.

Cesar was training an adorable bulldog to not bite skateboarders as they coasted by his house. As he conquered the dog's fear by simply skateboarding beside him until he got used to it, a lightbulb went off in my head.

OF COURSE, I thought, all I have to do is get 'Nook comfortable with bikes, by riding next to him. Why haven't I thought of this sooner?

I went right to work. Repeating Cesar's words in my head (we don't see the bike - the bike does not exist), I took 'Nook out on a leash and walked him passed his arch-nemesis. My bike didn't know what was coming. As it stood there, propped on its kick-stand, 'Nook barked, growled, and then barked some more. Finally, after about 15 minutes of berating, 'Nook seemed to be over it, and I was ready to take the training to the next level.

With 'Nook's leash in one hand and my bike handle in the other, we went for a stroll in the grass. For about five minutes, Nanook seemed okay walking next to the bike. He eyed it constantly, but was calm. The voice inside my head was rejoicing. But pride always comes before the fall.

I got a big head, and decided it would be a great idea to try riding my bike next to Nanook. After all, he'd been doing so well. I figured it was time to up the ante. I hooked 'Nook's leash onto the belt-loop of my favorite jeans, hopped on my bike and took off.

For about two seconds, I thought it was going to work. I thought I was going to be that awesome dog owner that can ride her bike with her dog running beside her calmly. I imagined myself riding around the park with 'Nook right beside my bike, our hair blowing in the wind. People would see us coming and say, "Wow! Look at that well-behaved dog. I wish I could get my dog to do that!"

Right about the time I pictured Cesar sending me a your-an-awesome-owner letter, I realized Nanook was panicking. And before I knew it, he sprinted for the backdoor of my apartment. This wouldn't really be an issue, had I been smart enough to hold onto the leash instead of attaching it to my body. So there I was, being dragged at full speed (literally by the seat of my pants) by a terrorized dog who was intent on doing nothing but shoving his body underneath my bed. The fire pit on the back porch, the recycling bin - they would not stand in between him and his safe place. He barreled through them. And just as I was about to hit the iron table, my pants ripped.

When I went inside, I found a pile of poop on the kitchen floor and Nanook under my bed. When I tried to coerce him out, he growled at me. He stayed there, still attached to his leash, for the rest of the night. It wasn't until he had to go outside that he gave in, came out from under the bed and cautiously laid beside my feet.

I don't watch The Dog Whisperer anymore. It isn't because I don't believe his tactics work. They do. Nanook is a fantastic walker now. Cyclists can even ride beside us; as long as I don't look at them, 'Nook doesn't either. It's just that I've given up trying to make Nanook something he's not. Sometimes dogs just need to be dogs. Sure, he may still bark at people who walk by our apartment in Savannah, but it's kind of nice. It's like having a home security system (which comes in handy when you live one block east of druggie paradise). Yes, he isn't a runner and he still refuses to get close to a bike. But he's a great cuddler, and he could beat any dog in an icecream eating contest. In a way, 'Nook is very much like me. Some rules he lives by. Others, he tosses to the curve because they don't fit his personality. How could you not love a dog like that?

Does the Biggest Loser Take Dogs?

"I'm going to run a 5k," I say while watching The Biggest Loser and shoveling another bite of chocolate peanut butter pie in my mouth.

Nanook has his head perched on my leg, his eyes shooting back and forth between the dessert on the table and me.

"No, I take that back," Nook's ears perk up as my fork picks up some chocolate that's fallen on the plate, "We're going to run a 5k. You and me. We're gonna find a local race, start training tomorrow," I look at the workout gear on the participants, "and buy sweat bands."

He huffs, then devours some crumbs I carelessly dropped on the ground.

"It will be good for us to finish something," I say, glancing at the half-painted bedroom, the half-read book, and half-finished homework in front of me. Then I exclaim, "Oh my God, I can't believe she GAINED weight this week. She's not working hard enough,"and take another bite of pie.

The next day, when I come home, Nanook refuses to get out from underneath my bed. He's shoved his body far enough underneath the frame so only his tail is peaking out from underneath the red comforter. I coerce him out with Spicy Nacho Doritos, then put my running shoes on.

We start off small - a fast-paced walk - and 'Nook seems to be enjoying himself. His nose is up in the air, his nostrils flaring to take in the new smell. His poofy tail blows in the wind, a beautiful sight juxtaposed with the long piece of drool starting to dangle from his mouth.

When we turn out of Stadium Walk onto Lanier Drive, I decide to step it up a bit and start jogging. Nanook stares up at me, then down at his feet, then up at me again.

"You can do it 'Nook," I cheer, "We aren't even running fast," and pull the leash as motivation.

We jog down to the stop light, and I notice the leash is extended as far as it can go. For most dog owners, this would mean they were being dragged by their dog, who wants nothing more than to run as fast as it can. But I am not most dog owners, because I own Nanook.

'Nook is a food-stealing dog-ninja. He's the dog who ate a fondant Wii remote I made for one of my friends groom's cake. He's the dog who once ate a stick of butter I left out on the kitchen counter. And now, he's the dog who is so out of shape that he's running a full leash-length behind me. In order to keep my pace, I have to fully extend my arm backwards.

"Come on 'Nook," I yell, more worn out from tugging him than running, "Let's go! Let's go!"

But Nanook, in a pure moment of fatty frustration, ignores my motivational comments and sits down.

"'Nook, what are you doing?" I tug on the leash, "Get up."

He lays on the cement. We have not even gone half of a mile, and my dog has decided he's had enough. We have a stare-off, and I try to encourage him.

"'Nook, it's not even that far back."

He glares at me.

"Seriously, 'Nook."

Again, nothing.

"Seriously. You need to get up."

I tug at the leash, until I force him off the pavement, back in the direction of home. He huffs, and I continue walking and tugging the entire way back to the apartment. When we get in the door, he rushes to his water bowl, and laps up the entire thing like he just got done with an Ironman triathlon, and defeated, I get out another piece of peanut butter pie.