My nine year old daughter has quite a collection of stuffed dogs. So many dogs, that for Christmas we bought her a REAL dog bed to put in her room. There are Shepherds, Collies, Poodles, Terriers, Huskies, and Bulldogs…just to name a few. The collection is so big that we’ve lost count. But, there is one…just one…that holds a special place in my daughter’s heart. One little dog so dirty and tattered that it’s almost unrecognizable. Her name is Darling, and I think she was a Beagle in her previous life at the Hallmark store.

Sometime in November, when we were cleaning out toy boxes and organizing rooms to make space for Santa’s bounty, Darling got lost. We looked everywhere for her. Furniture was moved, closets were emptied, and toy boxes were thoroughly searched. I had come to the conclusion that my five year old son had probably thrown Darling into a Goodwill bag, but I didn’t dare tell my daughter that.

Last night, just before I tucked her into bed, we made another attempt to locate Darling. We looked under my daughter’s dresser and behind her desk, and I finally told her that I was afraid we had shipped Darling off to Goodwill. Her eyes filled with tears and she said, “NOOOO!” I told her that I just didn’t know where else that dog could be.

Then I asked her if she had ever looked in my room. She and my son watch TV in there sometimes, and I told her it was possible that her ornery little brother could’ve thrown Darling under my bed. So we looked among the shoe boxes, stored-up summer clothes and dust bunnies, but with no luck. Then I looked behind my bed…and, THERE SHE WAS. Lodged between a windowsill and my headboard, crumpled up and barely visible.

When I said, “I found her!”, my little girl dropped the clothes she had been holding and ran over and grabbed her dog. And the tears which had been welling up, freely flowed down her cheeks. She was blubbering with joy, and I was so happy for her that I started crying. A grown woman, crying about a filthy, stuffed dog with spots of fur that are hardened with what is most likely syrup. I never would’ve thought that I’d be happy to see Darling too.

I have mentioned before that our dog is getting old. But, it’s becoming all too clear that she’s completely neurotic as well. Once upon a time, the only things that gave her dread were normal dog-phobias. Things like the vacuum cleaner and garbage trucks. But, her bravery is diminishing with each passing day.

Lately we’ve noticed that she is losing her spunk, because her newest fear is going for a walk. The thing we used to have to spell out…W-A-L-K, because she would attack you with kisses if you said the real thing. For awhile, we even had to spell it backward. But not anymore. Her mania has taken over. It’s not just trash trucks or city buses anymore. If she sees anything bigger than a sedan, her tail goes down and her ears flop over. She begins to shake, and darts around on the end of her leash looking for somewhere…anywhere…to escape the four-wheeled monster.

So, now we have a battle before we can even get her outside in the morning. She knows when my husband grabs her collar off the door that it’s time to go spineless and find a good place to hide.

The other day he found her holed-up under our son’s bed. When he got down on the floor and said her name, she turned her head and faced the other way as if to say, “You can not see me! I am invisible! Go away with your leash and find someone else to torture.” My dog…the only one on the block who wishes she she could really be a ghost for Halloween.

My dog is driving me crazy. She sheds so much fur that I don’t know how she can bear the cool evenings we’ve been having. I half expect to roll over in bed and see her snuggled up beside me saying, “Hey! Quit taking all the covers already!” Her fur comes off in such quantities that I never want to pet her, or let anyone else pet her. I find myself yelling at guests, “Stay above the collar! Stay above the collar!” so as not to find a pile of yellow fluff floating around the room, inevitably landing on someone’s black pants.

Secondly, she has some serious odor lately. Flat out STANK. I think it’s part dog breath, part stagnant pond water. We do our best to keep her from it, but she can occasionally stray and manage a dip in the park’s green water with a film on top. Not to mention her gas, which is so bad that it’s become audible in her old age. It used to be that if we saw her get up and sneak slyly away, an aroma like no other would follow. It was so bad that she would actually leave the room. But now she’s old, and she simply lays there and lets the dog vapor linger around her…and all around the room. If only people could see us watching TV in the evening with our shirts pulled up to cover our mouths and noses. We don’t dare breathe that toxic air.

But, what I find most disgusting is that whenever I let her outside, she delights in eating squirrel poop, or rabbit poop, or whatever animal leaves those tiny turds in our yard. She will meander over to the ivy under our tree, find a spot and literally dig in. She will bury her teeth in the dirt, get a mouthful, and begin to chomp, chomp, chomp. I can’t even bear to watch without gagging.

The last dog I had not only ate other animal’s waste, but she rolled in it. She once squirmed around in fresh dog poo and was completely covered from the tip of her nose to her shoulders. Because it was a frigid winter day, and because I was a moron, I decided to put her in the bathtub to rinse her off. I pulled the curtain shut and turned on the shower full blast. I then opened the curtain to pull the removable shower head off so I could get under her neck. But when I did that, she did the soaked-dog-shake and wet poo was flung to the walls, floor, ceiling…everywhere. Crevices I didn’t even know existed were speckled with dripping feces.

Now that I think about it, maybe I should be grateful for what I have now.

Our neighbors are on vacation and I’m taking care of their house this week. I’ve been watering the flowers, collecting the mail, and feeding their cat. For those of you who really know me, that last task is my version of torture. I have Ailurophobia. That’s a fancy word for “cats scare the poo out of me”.

My fear of cats started when I was in elementary school. It seems my house-sitting abilities were evident early on, because I used to open and shut my neighbor’s curtains, and take care of their cat when they went away. They had a big, white, long-haired cat who was the meanest animal I’ve ever known. And, just to add insult to injury, his name was Fluffy.

That cat taught me the first lesson in feline behavior, which is that they can never be trusted. He was always nice to me when his owners were home, but once they left town and I’d show up to feed him, things would turn ugly. Fluffy used to greet me at the door standing on his HIND LEGS, while baring his teeth and hissing. As I entered the house, he would swat at me, then chase me from room to room, hissing at me the whole time. I hated that cat, but I loved the money, so I’d go back every summer to be battered and scratched up some more.

My fear of cats only got worse as I aged. I once locked myself in my sister’s bathroom because her two cats were meowing right outside the door. It’s like they knew. I stayed in there until someone came looking for me and they had to physically move the cats before I would come out. And, last year when a stray cat showed up at our campsite and jumped into my husband’s lap, it made me jump out of my chair. Because, if that thing had climbed into my lap…well, let’s just say I would’ve either passed out, or made a mess in my pants, or possibly both. I ended up letting our dog off her leash to chase that stray away, then kept her at my side for the rest of the night, chanting, “Good dog. GOOD DOOOOOG!!”

This fear has even invaded my sleep. I have a recurring nightmare that a cat has jumped up and dug it’s teeth into my outstretched arm. I swing my arm violently, but it won’t let go. This is evidence that what happens in your childhood can scar you for life.

But, these neighbors we have now…they’re good neighbors, and they’ve helped us out when we’ve needed them. So, I will suppress my fear, tentatively enter their house, and muster the mental strength it takes to put some kibble in their cat’s bowl.