I wonder if my dogs know when I'm pissed off at them?

As I write this post I have three snoring pups, all around me. Content. Relaxed. Trusting, and vulnerable. I’m their fave person whenever I’m on my bed. Which is a place they’re actually not allowed to be, but since Yannick is too busy filming to read my daily musings, he’ll never know that they’re up here. Which is not entirely true. He’ll know the second he gets home at 2am, climbs into bed, and begins sneezing…then my goose will be cooked. Lucky for me, my hubby is a very nice, civilized spouse, and would never wake me from my beauty sleep to pick a fight with me. I on the other hand, am a total brat, and would wake him at any hour if I had a bone to pick with him. I love you baby, thanks for being so f’n cool. And to all my exs, you’re lucky that I’m “the one who got away.”

Watching them sleep, clearly obsessed with me, and wanting to be with me, I can’t help but wonder if my dogs know when I’m pissed of at them because they f*#ked up? For example. Duke pees on absolutely EVERYTHING he should NOT pee on. If you can think of something that a dog should not pee on, I can guarantee you Duke has peed on it. Like when he cocked his leg, and relieved himself on the upper deck, on the outdoor couch cushion the other day. There was nothing standing in his way, no reason why he couldn’t go down the fourteen stairs to the grass and do his business there. The simple fact is; he’s truly too damn lazy to go all the way down the stairs to the grass. He’s always been lazy, and defiant. So naturally I flipped my lid on him. I talk, or rather I should say, yell, at him like a disobedient child, his breeder told me to say things to him such as: “You don’t do your business on Momma’s couch. You go downstairs, and do your business down there.” I can’t tell him that he’s supposed to go OUTSIDE to do his business, because, well if this were a court of law, technically, he IS outside. Is it really his problem that I have fancy cushions, or planters that maybe smell like earth etc which he associates with doing his business in the right place? Or is it mine? This is the main bone of contention in our relationship, his poor choice of where to do his business. One time, last summer, he climbed UP ON THE OUTDOOR COUCH AND POOPED THERE. Yeah he did that. He literally had to climb, which is a struggle for his super short legs, up onto the couch to poo. Really?? Cuz doing that on the grass, which you passed on your way to struggle climb up onto the couch, that was RIGHT THERE, was MORE work?? I highly doubt that little dog.

Then there’s Mack. The dog, has had more body parts removed than I honestly think he has left, he’s a miracle dog, given the best organic dog food money can buy. His bowl is NEVER empty. Ever. He’s on the free-fed eating method, so I know he’s not hungry. Except for some strange reason his palate craves shit. Every chance he gets, he goes outside and eats poo. He comes back inside, mouth all foamy with a shifty look in his eye, and I know. I know he’s been outside having the Organic Garden Buffet. And I lose my mind: “Mack what is wrong with you?? That is soooooo disgusting, you’re totally disgusting right now. Get away from….actually come here, I need to wash your face. (Washes face.) Good, now get lost. You’re so gross, that is so gross.” Of my horrified rant, I wonder how many words he actually understood? Some people have said that dogs can retain as many as 165 words, more if you talk to them a lot, and use the same words. Consistency is key. This is why I know for a fact that Mack knows that I think eating your own shit, or the shit of your brothers is disgusting, because I’ve been telling him this FOR YEARS. Yet he continues to do it. In fact, he did it just this evening. I’m powerless to stop him.

*Side note: please do not email me with all the reasons why he’s eating poop. I know why, my vet has told me why, I also have the internet, and have googled it, so I really know why. I just don’t understand WHY.*

And finally, Kohl. God bless, sweet, protective, guard dog extraordinaire, Kohl. Yannick, and I say it all the time, we’ve never, in all our years owned a dog as “dog like” as Kohl is. We’re all obsessed with him. I think it would be fair to say, he’s like our child who became the neurosurgeon, while the other two are, well…NOT neurosurgeons. He’s just awesome. Super cool. Studly, but loving in a jock with a big squishy heart sort of way. But, with all his total stud like qualities, and his keen sense of guarding, comes a lot of meat traveling, very often at a high rate of speed only to be stopped by, oh I don’t know, THE FRONT DOOR. Which is floor to ceiling glass, and now looks like somebody tried to claw their way through it to escape living with us. Or the stairs that are made of IPE, one of the hardest woods on the planet, put in the treads on purpose so that our three dogs (Kuda was the original 3rd dog) wouldn’t be able to destroy the stairs by scratching them to death, running and up and down them all damn day long. Enter Kohl. IPE wood is no match for his nails made of, I don’t know what matter, but thick, and strong enough to make short work of these stairs. I’m like a broken record with him: “Kohl DO NOT jump at the door! Kohl keep your feet on the ground! Kohl DO NOT HIT the door!” All for not, because, I do believe in his dog mind he’s thinking: “BUT I AM GUARDING YOU. THIS IS A GOOD THING.”

Is being a dog mom like being a mom to a toddler? You know as soon as a child is up, and mobile the entire decor of your house changes. Things are now at adult height instead of designer height. If I were a responsible pet mom, would I not create a yard that didn’t set them up for failure?? Not bring them into a home that is “too precious” for their regular, natural dog antics? It makes me “go hmmm” all the damn time. Then there are the days that I’m running late, or feeling under the weather but I still have to: wipe Duke and Kohl’s feet with special antifungal wipes, or put oil of oregano drops in their ears, or eye drops in Duke’s eyes, or wipe the folds of his face, and tail with the antifungal wipes, or give heart medication to Kohl, thyroid medication to Mack. I think “lady you are a crazy person. Did you really need THREE???”

And then it happens, something makes me sad, and I cry. My boys are there before the tear can hit the floor. Or I’ve been away from them, and I walk in, and they come unglued, so happy to see me, kissing my face, singing their welcome home song, while their bodies do the welcome home salsa. Or in the quiet of the night, when there is nobody home, I’m guaranteed to never feel lonely with three warm, snoring bodies never far from my side. Dogs are pure, and true. They are all love all the time. Even after getting yelled at, or sometimes ignored when the days get too full. They never waiver. They never turn their backs, and they never stop being love. Which for me, during these times we’re living in, I’ll weather the inconvenient bathroom choices of Duke, the shit eating of Mack, and the total destruction of my new home by Kohl for unconditonal pure love. I’d say it’s a fair trade indeed.