Path: bloom-picayune.mit.edu!snorkelwacker.mit.edu!americast.com!americast.com!americast-post Newsgroups: americast.wpost From: americast-post@AmeriCast.Com Organization: American Cybercasting Approved: americast-post@AmeriCast.com Subject: A Dogged Love-Hate Affair=BY DONNA BRITT= Date: Fri, 6 Nov 92 05:06:14 EST Message-ID: <41.1992Nov6.050614@AmeriCast.com> A Dogged Love-Hate Affair=BY DONNA BRITT= In the spirit of the political season, I am willing to take full responsibility for the horror that is Silverado. Not the Colorado savings and loan. The dog. "Of course we can't have a dog - we're renters," I used to say, my face falsely chagrined, whenever my sons brought up the sub- ject. "People who rent can't have dogs because landlords hate pets. I am so sorry that this is true." It was perfect. Then, in the summer of '90, I made the mistake of letting the boys accompany me to look over the house that would become our home. As I oohed and aahed over the high ceilings and corner study, my kids sized up the landlady. Martha looked sweet, so the boys - like the shameless grifters they are - slid into action. "Excuse me, but do you - would you - allow pets?" began my old- est, eyes glistening. "Like a dog?" added his brother, right on cue. "Sure," Martha replied. "I love animals! We've had two dogs." Paradise lost. Weeks later, we got him. Silverado, who was six months old and "mostly housebroken" when we bought him, is an American Eskimo, a breed of surpassing beau- ty and an acorn's intellect. White and effervescent as a tub of suds, Silverado has bright black eyes and a trusting expression. I hate him. Within weeks of his arrival, he stained carpets on three levels, mauled the leather Cartier phone book given me by a distant friend and ate an entire bottle of Flintstones children's vitamins - and then barfed in Technicolor. He also shredded every piece of expensive lingerie I owned. Surely, no dog ever had more unerring taste. Before we barricaded our halls with dog-resistant gates, Silverado would daily slink soundlessly into the laundry room, find the dirty-clothes pile and start to forage. Contemptuous of boys' white jockeys and smelly socks, he'd ferret until he unearthed something worth his time, something silky or with a Victoria's Secret label. And make a chew toy out of it. Then there's his temperament. Silver is, well, excitable. Give him the slightest provocation - like breathing - and he becomes Tasmanian Devil Dog - panting, jumping, licking, spinning, nip- ping, whining and slobbering all at once. Sit and he does it in your lap. It's exhausting being in the same room with him. I tried training him. We even rented tapes "guaranteed" to keep him from dragging us into traffic, barking incessantly. Useless. Did I mention the fleas? How, for most of the summer, my ankles were covered with bumps, sores and scabs - 50 flea bites at one point in July? (Yes, I counted.) Did I say how I feared sleeping in my own bed because "they" were there, waiting? How I spent the equivalent of a private-school education on flea "bombs," sham- poos, sprays and repellents before calling a pro? Honestly, I expected to like Silverado. I have wonderful memories of doggie pets from my childhood; sweet, calm creatures named Taffy, Scooter and Coco. They were animals who cuddled up to you, of- fered canine comfort when you were down and actually learned that the dining room is not a 12-by-16 toilet. Silverado, bless him, reminds me less of those dear pets and more of Captain Ahab's fishy nemesis. He is my Great White Dog. It's my fault, of course. Silver's more than a dog - he's a karmic test that I've failed, ever-shedding proof of my unworthi- ness. If I were a good person - one whose love of animals extend- ed beyond vegetarianism and not wearing fur - I'd love him. That my friends hate him too only shows their inadequacies. But my youngest adores him. So do many of his friends. Maybe it's a kid thing - we wouldn't understand. Anyway, I'm stuck with him. What rankles most is knowing that in some dank, hidden place, I too love Silverado. I learned this last winter. Our baby sitter had just left for home, with Silverado - who'd slipped out of the house - bumbling behind. When Julian reappeared - breathless, his expression stricken - I was flying out of the door before he could even get out all of the words: "Silver's been hit . . . he ran into traffic and a car hit him. . . . He ran away from me." It took over an hour to locate Silver, who was listless and bloo- dy, and get him to an animal hospital. There we learned nothing was broken. "He was really very lucky," the vet said as she treated his cuts and bruises. For weeks, he convalesced, limping painfully, wanting his head held, wetting the floor - this time apologetically - because he was too weak to go out. Nursing him, I was stunned by the inten- sity of my affection. By the time he was whole - again snagging my hose, shredding my mail - I'd figured something out. For better or worse, Silverado is a part of the family. Just like all of the semi-irritating folks whose bloodlines intersect with mine. He's like the male relative who, as a child, took great pleasure in public gas-passing; the aunt who invariably remarks on the fit of my jeans. ("Gaining weight, girl?) Or the cousin who never fails to shriek, "God, what's wrong with your hair?" A creature whose idiosyncrasies annoy, yet ultimately bind us closer. So now I know that each time I tell a Silverado tale - like how recently he snuck upstairs and bypassed three other rooms to leave his smelly surprise package on my ivory carpet - the tie that binds gets tighter. Maybe he'll strangle on it. Just kidding! I think. 02:31 11-06C9999----- Copyright 1992, The Washington Post. 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