It has become quite clear as of late that according to Dorothy, I am number three in the pack. And that is on a good day. There is Sean, who is number one. And then there is Dorothy, number two. And really, she would like the counting to just end there, thank you very much. I don’t really need to be a member of the pack, after all, I can just be a kind of servant figure who scoops kibble into her bowl and has a comfortable lap for lying on when she is feeling sleepy and Sean isn’t sitting.
On the whole, I am okay with Dorothy seeing Sean as number one. It would be stressful if my dog did not like my boyfriend, so I would much rather she adore him, as she does—even if she does so to the point that I am totally ignored when he is around. In case you think I exaggerate, let me give you an example: when Sean is in my apartment, and it is my turn to take Dorothy out to do her business, she almost will not go without him. Despite however many times I tell her that we are a feminist pack, I have to pull with all my strength, while she puts on all four brakes and bucks her head to try to slip out of her collar so she can stay with her dear.
We even have to do a walk feint, in which Sean pretends to come with us and then doesn’t go out the door at the last minute. Which really doesn’t completely work, since I then have to pull Dorothy down the hall and out the door like a ton of bricks. She’ll do her business the second all four feet touch the sidewalk, but then will turn around instantly to go back in to her pack leader.
And there’s more: she barks when we dare to hug, not because Sean is hugging me, but because number three (me) is daring to touch number one (Sean), while leaving number two (Dorothy) out of it.
Finally, last night things came to a head, when Dorothy tried to claim the side of the bed next to Sean by MARKING it. With her urine. The comforter is now at the cleaners getting washed, and tonight Miss Dorothy and I are re-starting our stalled training regimen, so that she can be reminded, a tad, of her place in the scheme of things. I’ll keep you posted.
Dorothy, thinking the apartment
should really just contain a boy and his dogge: