Article: Tasmanian Puppy

Posted by Monkey on 03.23.04

Ever since my girlfriend and I adopted an eight-week-old Pembroke Welsh Corgi puppy, we've been forced to reduce our vocabulary to short and succinct words like "No!", "Hey!", "Don't!" and "NO!" (we mean it, this time). If it contains two or more syllables, we don't bother. Because — as my girlfriend so dutifully pointed out — the little guy's brain is approximately the size of a peach pit. Chances are, he thinks we're just two annoying dogs wearing clothes and barking at him.

We still aren't sure what possessed us to eagerly venture deep into the heart of rural Iowa and plunk down $300 for our very own Tasmanian Puppy, blissfully unaware of the carnage to come.

"Oh, but our dog will be a super-genius!" I proclaimed during the car ride to tiny Crawfordsville, Iowa. "He'll instinctively know how to operate the toilet, not to mention the dishwasher and laundry machine!"

My girlfriend added: "Yes — we'll never have to do chores again! And he'll never whine at night, because at eight weeks, he'll be very emotionally stable."

You see, we're canine experts.

Puppies definitely put on a good show if prospective buyers are around. When we showed up at the small farm to adopt our dog, a big wad of Corgis came bursting out of the barn, frolicking and prancing about like miniature supermodels on the runway. It's all a practiced routine, I'm sure. They lure you in with extreme cuteness, but meanwhile they're plotting all the various and devious ways in which they can burgle your slippers and subsequently shred them.

We picked one out, named him Arlo and brought him home. His first order of business upon checking out his new environment was to drop a steaming, curly-q pile of shit right in front of the television. All the while, he looked over his shoulder and grinned at me, as if to say: "Get used to it, pal! There's more where that came from."

Arlo the Corgi has been very busy in his first week at home. He managed to "mark his territory" (in English, that means PISS) on every square inch of the carpet. That trickling we hear isn't just his urine hitting the floor, it's also the sound of my home's resale value dropping lower and lower.

Arlo has declared jihad on all of our socks. Whether we're wearing them or not doesn't matter. If it moves, and it's at ground level, HE KILLS IT. Along with that, the puppy has developed an obsession with eating his own vomit — a tricky skill to master, if you ask me. I've already signed him up to appear as a contestant on Fear Factor.

The sad part is, I actually get excited to see dog poop — outdoors, that is. Arlo will be hunkered over, dropping a log in the grass, and meanwhile I'm shouting, "GOOOOOOD BOY! THAT'S A GOOOOOOOOOD POTTY!" like some deranged Poop Enthusiast. I'm so into the habit, sometimes I catch myself following co-workers around the office, asking them: "Do you need to GO OUTSIDE? HUH? HUH? OUTSIDE?"

In all honesty, we love our new demon and we're committed to raising him right, so we've hired a well-respected Puppy Counter-Terrorism Expert Lady (named Tonja). The morning of our first obedience training session, Tonja left me a cryptic voicemail: "The puppy must be wearing his collar and leash when I arrive. At that time I will spend five minutes alone with the puppy. Then I will speak with you." Click.

This woman is all business. The second she walked into our house, Tonja busted out her mystical Jedi mind powers and hypnotized Arlo into an obedient trance. She may have levitated, at one point. In fact, I don't think I ever saw her pull into the driveway. She just … materialized.

Tonja taught us many interesting things. For instance, we were shocked to learn that canines are not born with a working knowledge of the English language. (Some dogs instinctively know Urdu, however.) Phrases like "GOD DAMMIT!" and "Does snookem-wookems have to go poo-poo?" are just mindless static.

I can only hope that Arlo grows up to be slightly more well behaved than my last dog (Ty the Cocker Spaniel), who quickly ascended the corporate ladder in my parents' household to become President, CEO and Alpha Male. He would issue demands for treats randomly and without warning. If we didn't comply, Ty would sometimes walk us to the treat jar at gunpoint. We fanned His Greatness with giant leaves while he sat perched on his throne of Snausages.

With this new puppy, the girlfriend and I are wearing our respective game-faces — every second of every day. Because the moment we drop our guard, Arlo is going to tear up the carpet, swallow it, barf it back up and then eat it all over again.

In the coming months, I'll probably start attending Puppy-Owner Survivor classes at the local VFW hall.

"Hello. My name is Nathan, and that's a Pembroke Welsh Corgi hanging from my pantleg."

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