Dobbie The Disgusting

I promise, there's a post coming, but I had to share the latest bit of dog psychology I have been given the pleasure to watch in action.

I have been reading about dogs and their amazing sense of smell.

Dogs can smell another dog's poo and tell if that dog is big, small, male or female, neutered or not.

This of course points out the incredible difference between dogs and us. We don't smell poo beyond the fresh and not fresh stage, even though our noses are essentially non-functioning compared to our dogs. I wonder if poo would smell better if we simply understood it's complexities, like learning to appreciate the difference between a Shiraz and a Merlot.

Dobby, the kidlette's dog has quite the nose, and in many ways, he is the ultimate definition of why people hate small dogs. He is shrill, shivery, nervous, jumpy, a notorious marker of chair legs and curtains, and carries a huge Napoleon complex on his tiny little shoulders. He also smiles and walks like a man, so he can be very unsettling. (recently learned Mugs Fact: small dogs mark in the house more often than large dogs because they have a smaller concept of territory).

Smile for Grandma!

He is a rescue with an unknown background, so who knows what baggage he's carrying.

Dobby has improved so much since the kidlette adopted him. He comes when called, is well-behaved off leash, heels like a Schutzhund graduate and  only pees on stuff when we aren't looking.

"You can't look at Dobby as a dog," and ex-boyfriend of kidlette's explained to the non-Dobby loving current one, "it's better if you think of him as a creature. I did, and we got along fine. Besides, if you want to love Clare, you have to love Dobby."

She's a kid after my own heart, she is.

The kidlette and I were on a walk with our dogs yesterday. Our mini-power- pack consists of Charlie, my middle-aged Rat Terrier, Brockle, my large and boisterous GSD mix and Dobby, the kidlette's Italian Greyhound/ Min Pin cross.

Dinah and Snocone are dodderers and dawdlers, so they walk with Jim.

We like to play along Fountain Creek at Monument Valley Park.

There's a trail below the actual park, part of the homeless highway that winds through the city. We can safely let the dogs loose and stay out of trouble. Neither the police or the leash-law abiding citizens like to hang out down there.

It's fun to watch, because the tiny terrors attack poor Brockle with incredible fury. Charlie will actually grab his collar and choke him down if I don't keep an eye out. Dobby barks and bites, barks and bites. I would feel sorry for Brockle if he didn't clearly think it funny. He teases them to a complete frenzy then jumps into the icy water, knowing the little sissies won't follow. As soon as they calm down he jumps out and launches at them, going scooter-butt at 100 mph until they're nuts again.

We were walking down our favorite trail when the dogs flew by. First Brockle, with a huge grin and a wicked glint in his eye, then Charlie, honing in on his collar like it was a baby pigeon on it's first flight, and then...no Dobby.

We turned to look behind us and saw Dobby rolling in something.

"Oh no," the kidlette said.

"I'm sure it's something gross," I replied.

"I know what it is." The loo on a girl's face while watching her boyfriend puke in the alley behind a bar was plastered on the kidlette's.

"Brockle dumped a giant smelly load back there."

"It was too big for my plastic bags, I couldn't pick it up," I said. Nothing like being busted for ignoring my dog's poo during Earth Week. I knew I was destined for hell.

"Oh, it's getting picked up, Dobby's rolling in it." (recently learned Mugs Fact: small dogs will roll in large dogs excrement so they smell "bigger" to other dogs).

We watched in horror as the little troll stood up, gave himself a satisfied shake and came running towards us at full speed. The smell hit a good twenty five yards ahead of him. There is a price to pay when you run out of your regular dog food and buy a cheap bag of whatever to hold until you can get to Big R. A very high price. Brockle's unsettled stomach had delivered a mother load of runny, hunter's orange, mud bath for Dobby. Yep, I was going to hell and not getting to serve my sentences concurrently.

His white chest had turned orange, he had a clump of Brockle poo hanging from one ear. There was poo smeared and caked all over his harness and collar. The little ogre had a huge grin and proud strut as he trotted, sneezing, past my two dogs. Neither seemed bothered, but I didn't see any sign of, "Hey, check it out, Dobby's as big as a Rottweiler!"

He's just started doing that," the kidlette said with a sad shake of her head. "I don't know what his problem is."

We finished our walk, dreading getting into the car. Dobby pranced, danced, and attacked Brockle with enthusiasm. Before long he had long tufts of Brockle hair hanging from his chin and stuck to his chest. He was almost insane with delight over his warrior costume. Clouds of poo perfume hung in the air around us.

Please note the tufts of Brockle hair glued to his chest and neck with poo.
Sorry about the photo quality--it was getting dark.

We carefully maneuvered Dobby into the car and tied hi down. I then drove a good 10 mpg over the speed limit to get the kidlette and her gross little Gollum home and into the shower. I figured any cop who pulled us over would take one whiff and give us an escort. As we rolled the windows as far down as they could go I realized that there would be no waiting. I had already entered hell.