BAD DOG OBIT, PART ONE
It was my turn to get a dog. I met Gumbo online, through the Denver Dumb Friends League. I had said I wanted the kind of dog who cocks his head sideways at you when you say something interesting. This one did. He also knocked over an office chair to watch its wheels spin, and kept them spinning with a paw.
He gazed into my eyes. Also, he sat on my foot, in an act of twisted blue heeler domination.
In short, even at four months old, he was the smartest dog I ever met, as well as the most manipulative. Shortly after bringing him home, I did an NPR commentary about how hard he was to train, and how intensely satisfying it was to have finally broken his spirit and converted him into my faithful, entertaining servant. Two years later, I was sitting in my office listening to a slight clinking in the kitchen and pretending it wasn’t the sound of Gumbo standing delicately on the counter, eating butter off the butter dish.
Gumbo was a bad dog the way only a smart dog can be, and I was a worthless alpha, never mind the hours with the trainer, or the many hours we spent alone together.
I work at home. In a given week, I probably spoke more to Gumbo than anyone in my nuclear family. He walked all over me. (Especially when I was trying to practice yoga.) He yipped when I was on the phone trying to impress someone. He sat on my foot as I wrote. He cocked his head sideways when I bitched about how badly the writing was going. He put his narrow nose in my lap when I told him it was going well. He stared at me. One eye blue, one brown.
He was a bad dog and I loved him unconditionally, something I understand only after having had to put him down.