The Dog from Hell

While I was away on a business trip, my soft-hearted bride thought it would be a good idea to visit the dog pound and bring home a half-starved Great Dane with fleas and a broken tail. They charged her a $375 "adoption fee". That's after the vicious/disease-ridden/disfigured discount. We had him neutered ($300) and the tail amputated ($600). I call him Stumpy Sadsack now. We bought him a crate ($200), but he didn't fit in it, so we special-ordered the biggest crate they make ($300). He pulled the bandages off his tail and wagged a truly remarkable amount of blood on the entire interior of my truck, my pants, coat, hat and gloves, our son's pants and coat, the leather chair, ottoman and sofa, all the kitchen appliances and cabinets, two Oriental carpets, four walls and even the ceiling. The stump became infected, so we had it shortened again ($600). I didn't keep track of what the vaccinations, heart worm pills and flea medicines cost.

The thing is so big it stands with all four feet on the ground and drinks out of the kitchen sink. Our son (hereafter known as "Private Root Beer") wears his ski helmet most of the time because it frightens him when the new dog takes his head in it's mouth. It doesn't bite him, it just slobbers his entire head. Still, it's dominant behavior that must be modified. Easier said than done. When Private Root Beer passes by the dog, he flattens himself against the wall and says "Excuse me, excuse me, excuse me." When Stumpy Sadsack fights with our old dog, my job is to wrestle him into a submissive posture on his back while my wife jumps around flapping her arms and yelling "Don't let him win!". She bought me a Dog Whisperer DVD to show me how easy it would be if I did it correctly. If I express anything other than rapturous enchantment with our new canine friend as I'm picking up turds the diameter of beer cans, she bursts into tears.