According to Hofmann: My dog is #1…and #2
I’m always amazed at dogs – sure they have an incredible sense of smell and hearing, can see ghosts and can time travel, but the thing that fascinates me most about them is their bathroom habits.
Those thoughts do not emerge until I see a few dogs together because the subject of the bathroom between a group of dogs eventually comes up much like the politics does at a family Thanksgiving dinner, and it gets just as crappy.
Recently, we dog-sat my brother in-lawĢƵ dog for a week. ItĢƵ considered a vacation for both his dog Buck and my dog Oreo as the two immediately start running, chasing, biting, barking, and growling at each other the moment they get together.
One of the few times they have a time out is when one of them goes to the bathroom outside (thank God for that!), or when they both collapse from pure exhaustion for five minutes before starting up again.
When one dog stops to go to the bathroom, the other one stops, too, and either watches and waits until they’re done or decides to also go to the bathroom.
Every now and then, one of the dogs breaks protocol and gets close to the urinating dog in an attempt to smell the pee stream, much to my chagrin.
“Hey!” I yell from the porch. “Quit sniffing his pee stream!”
Anyway, after one urinates in the yard, the other one goes to that spot and marks his territory over it and the other one goes back to remark his territory that was previously over-marked.
Remarkable, I know. ItĢƵ like the canine version of seeing and raising a bet during a poker game, and thatĢƵ fine for the numero uno in the bathroom world-not so good for good-old number two.
I know dogs like the smell of … unpleasant things, and Oreo is certainly no exception. Whenever I see Oreo rolling on his back in the yard, I flip out on him because I know he found a smelly dead animal and wants to take the experience home with him … literally.
“Stop rolling in death!” I scream.
Yes, my neighbors think I’m insane.
One incident with Oreo was actually worse than rolling in death.
My stepdaughter Emma and I took Oreo to a local dog park where the dogs can roam freely in a large fenced-in area. It just so happened that no other dogs were there at the time, so Oreo had it all to himself.
While Emma followed Oreo as he ran top speed to the other side of the dog park, I sat on a bench, closed my eyes and wondered if there were any health benefits of cannibalism.
That peaceful moment was shattered when Emma screamed, “Daddy! Oreo rolled in poop!”
Kids, I thought, are so melodramatic, which was why I called Oreo up to wipe away any dog-turd stains from his head with a tissue, but what emerged in front of me was a dog that was-how should I put it? – caked head to tail in frosting from another dog that had apparently eaten a human being.
So much for my thoughts on cannibalism.
With such foulness in front of me, I did the only thing I could: I handed Emma the leash and told her that washing the dog was now one of her weekly chores.
After I calmed her from her sudden nervous breakdown, I called my wife and told her to bring shampoo, a bucket, towels, holy water and a bottle of gin for both me and Emma.
We then bathed Oreo at a nearby pavilion with a faucet. Then I bathed myself with the gin while Emma sat in my wifeĢƵ car with her knees up to her chest, rocking herself back and forth while staring far out into her own reality.
Of course, I spent so much time observing the bathroom habits of my dog, I feel bad that the bathroom habits of his human family remain a mystery to him.
OreoĢƵ knowledge and understanding is basically me going into a room, shutting a door, making noises, those noises are followed by different noises and then the door opens.
His first thought must be, “Oh wow! It smells wonderful in there!”
But what would he think if I’d let him see what I’m doing in there?
First, as I lift the toilet lid, he’d question what I’m going to do to the place where he drinks water whenever I forget to put the lid down.
Then, when that question is answered, I very much doubt he would be disgusted – quite the opposite as I’m sure he’d believe he struck gold in the most magical room in the house.
But, as in life, the promise of something fantastic is yanked away – or flushed, in this case. Poor Oreo would approach the toilet, look inside and wonder what cruel trickery had taken place, and you don’t want an absence of trust between you and manĢƵ best friend; thatĢƵ how werewolves were invented.
So maybe it is better to have some doors remained closed and especially lids because if you’re ever at home and you smell a foul, wet-headed dog before you can see him coming to cuddle up with you, you better have plenty of gin and holy water on hand.
According to Hofmann is written by staff reporter Mark Hofmann of Rostraver Township. His books, “Good Mourning! A Guide to Biting the Big One … and Dying, Too” and “Stupid Brain,” are available on Amazon.com.