I just learned that today is Love Your Pet Day. Silly, really, to designate one day of the year for pet owners to do something they ought to do nonstop. But it gives me an excuse to talk about Freddy.
You may know Freddy from his rocky adoption odyssey or his slow-improvement narrative. Or maybe you’ve been subjected to his glass-shattering bark over the phone or in person. (If that’s the case, I’m sorry.)
Before I go further, I’m going to break in with Freddy’s alleged genetic breakdown, in case you’re wondering. Yes, I’m one of those people who indulged in a doggy DNA test. It was something of a joke gift to my husband for our anniversary—a silly indulgence. But interesting, really, since we’d always assumed we had a thirteen-pound Jack Russell–rat terrier mix on our hands. Nay! Here’s what Embark says about our pup:
You may know Freddy from his rocky adoption odyssey or his slow-improvement narrative. Or maybe you’ve been subjected to his glass-shattering bark over the phone or in person. (If that’s the case, I’m sorry.)
Before I go further, I’m going to break in with Freddy’s alleged genetic breakdown, in case you’re wondering. Yes, I’m one of those people who indulged in a doggy DNA test. It was something of a joke gift to my husband for our anniversary—a silly indulgence. But interesting, really, since we’d always assumed we had a thirteen-pound Jack Russell–rat terrier mix on our hands. Nay! Here’s what Embark says about our pup:
Freddy is a truly—truly—strange dog. Highly neurotic, he’s on the maximum dosage of fluoxtetine. But that med doesn’t seem to touch his defining idiosyncrasies.
In the same way that he is a combination of black and white, his behavior is built of competing contradictions. He’s a four-legged paradox.
Almost every day, I drive Freddy to one of three lovely nearby spots for a walk. Once I’ve collared, harnessed, and leashed him, he is raring to go to the car. He’ll even scratch at the door to the garage and/or the car.
But when we arrive at our destination, I have to pry him out of the car. Here he is, on the passenger-side floor, silently screaming, “Noooo! Don’t make me go outside in the fresh air!”
In the same way that he is a combination of black and white, his behavior is built of competing contradictions. He’s a four-legged paradox.
Almost every day, I drive Freddy to one of three lovely nearby spots for a walk. Once I’ve collared, harnessed, and leashed him, he is raring to go to the car. He’ll even scratch at the door to the garage and/or the car.
But when we arrive at our destination, I have to pry him out of the car. Here he is, on the passenger-side floor, silently screaming, “Noooo! Don’t make me go outside in the fresh air!”
After I scrape his resistant, avoidant self off the floorboard and get him going on his walk, his tail almost always stays low. Note exhibits A, B, and C below.
There’s an upside to his weird walking anxiety, though. First, Freddy never stops to sniff or relieve himself, so our walks are delightfully efficient. (I don’t even carry poop bags—I gave them all away.) And second, Freddy is completely nonreactive to other dogs. If they bark, if they stick their noses between his back legs, he just broadcasts, “I don’t want any trouble.”
Toward the end of every walk, he will start to pull the leash a bit, eager to return to the car. Such torture he endures, going on the very walk he hurried to initially! 🙄 Sigh. It’s just the way he is.
The other bizarre behavioral contradiction centers on my husband, Bob. Bob has never been anything but loving, patient, and kind to Freddy since the day we adopted him in the summer of 2020. In the right circumstances, Freddy returns the affection. And yet. If Bob is sitting in his comfy chair and moves to get up ... if he dares to close his laptop ... Freddy will flip his lid. He’ll go into full alert mode, barking a warning to me: “The man is moving! The man is moving! Danger! Danger!” His hackles go up. The decibels of his horrible, screeching bark hit the red zone. He doesn’t threaten Bob; he just wants the world to know that the y-chromosome monster is up to something.
I so often wonder what makes our dog the way he is. Was he abused as a puppy? Neglected? Or is he just genetically predisposed to hardcore, crippling worry? (Bob calls Freddy Don Knotts sometimes.)
We’ll never know. We’ll just keep proving to him over and over that he’s safe and that we love him—and not just on Love Your Pet Day.
Toward the end of every walk, he will start to pull the leash a bit, eager to return to the car. Such torture he endures, going on the very walk he hurried to initially! 🙄 Sigh. It’s just the way he is.
The other bizarre behavioral contradiction centers on my husband, Bob. Bob has never been anything but loving, patient, and kind to Freddy since the day we adopted him in the summer of 2020. In the right circumstances, Freddy returns the affection. And yet. If Bob is sitting in his comfy chair and moves to get up ... if he dares to close his laptop ... Freddy will flip his lid. He’ll go into full alert mode, barking a warning to me: “The man is moving! The man is moving! Danger! Danger!” His hackles go up. The decibels of his horrible, screeching bark hit the red zone. He doesn’t threaten Bob; he just wants the world to know that the y-chromosome monster is up to something.
I so often wonder what makes our dog the way he is. Was he abused as a puppy? Neglected? Or is he just genetically predisposed to hardcore, crippling worry? (Bob calls Freddy Don Knotts sometimes.)
We’ll never know. We’ll just keep proving to him over and over that he’s safe and that we love him—and not just on Love Your Pet Day.
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