By Clayton Dean
My name is Clayton Dean, and I have a problem: an incorrigible pet who is the reincarnation of an overbearing party host. Visualize Hugh Hefner circa 1978 overanxiously glad-handing everyone, and you’d have the idea. My pet believes every visitor needs to be enthusiastically and individually welcomed. Of course, welcomed means two dirty paws firmly planted on your chest or back, rapid-fire sandpaper-like licks to your face and lots of crazed jumping. Actually, exactly like Hugh Hefner. So this winter if you live in Northern Virginia you might see, but more likely hear, a crazed cacophony as he greets our guests. Yes, I have a dog. His name is Trouble. No really. I’ll say that again: his name is Trouble. And over the coming months I’ll continue to recap his adventures in this column: the Trouble with Trouble.
Trouble is a sweet dog. He loves attention and in return showers affection on our family. Although he’ll defend his food like the Spartans at Thermopylae, he will share his toys and bones with myself and the kids. Imagine roughhousing, throwing and chasing balls and high-stakes tugs-of-war with chew ropes, which with each passing moment grow heavier and wetter with dog saliva until they become frankly … disgusting. These chew ropes end up resembling the baby creatures from “Alien” right after they’ve burst forth from a human host’s chest. Ordinarily, this is the motivating factor to attempt to stop playing. For non-dog people, I should clarify: To a dog, there is nothing more compelling to keep playing than your attempts to stop. As you try to disengage, it is only a matter of minutes before you feel Trouble’s go-to move: a cold, wet, saliva-laden rope plopped onto your lap. This is particularly exciting if you’re wearing shorts. Negotiating a Middle East peace settlement would be simpler and quicker than disengaging from Trouble. And so usually we give up and play with Trouble until he falls asleep or finds something to eat. Fortunately, “something to eat” can constitute just about anything.
While dog owners are inured to these canine eccentricities, non-dog owners are often unprepared.
One day my mom was over and asked to nap in our basement bedroom. Our dogs aren’t allowed upstairs, but they have full run of the basement. We generally warn guests to be sure to close bedroom and bathroom doors because Trouble will nose right in as there’s nothing more exciting than being in the bathroom or bedroom with an unexpected guest. So on this particular afternoon my son, Jace, and I had worked Trouble into a righteous frenzy with “Play and Slobber.” (Don’t bother. I’ve already trademarked it.) The rope toy had become particularly slimy, and we thought nothing of going outside on the porch to hide from Trouble’s incessant attempts to splatter us with his sodden chew toy. We were hoping Trouble would forget and go to sleep or try to eat some shoe-like object that preferably belonged to my spouse or one of my daughters. But Trouble wouldn’t be Trouble if he did the expected (or hoped for). Jace and I, dry and smug on the back porch, were talking when we heard The Scream. I have to capitalize the word because otherwise it fails to capture the true essence. The barely human sound was a Scream like no other, and it emanated from the basement where my mother was sleeping. This was one of those special Mother Screams where you sort of hold your breath, close your eyes, clench real hard to try and turn invisible in hope that it’s directed at someone else. Apparently Trouble had taken his soggy rope downstairs and into the guest bedroom. Upon seeing a potential playmate, he stuck his nose under the covers and deposited the cold, dripping rope onto my snoozing mother’s bare leg. To this day she swears she has nightmares about cold octopus tentacles creeping up her leg. Although on the plus side, she doesn’t take naps at my house anymore.
