us last summer and mon père got jealous because I curled up on the sofa and slept with The Kid. But Andrew straightened him out. He told il principe in an email that my love was deep enough for him and Dada and a lot of other people. The Kid is going to be a famous writer or lawyer or both. If I have anything to do with it he will one day be president of the United States.
Last but not short of a dollar is Ashley Bell, who il principe calls Diva. She has long blond hair and is some looker. Bella Donna, another of Dada’s names for her, sings like an angel. I think she’s headed for The Metropolitan Opera and La Scala. She and her brother and mother founded an opera company Divaria which is touring in cities she thinks love opera. When she took me on a walk one day, I just know she fell in love and wanted to keep me for herself. But my lousy karma is to stay with Dada, so I dropped my ordinarily straight up tail and went home with him.
Riggs, Me and a Dash or Two of Trouble
The reason for that long and exhausting story is that one night when I was about seven months old and Riggs was about two months-old, Scott and Alison kept me while The Kid and Gail and il mio papà went to the movies and dinner. Here’s where I got into a lot of trouble. Riggs was a little fluff ball and I was all of 12 pounds. I tried all night to hump Riggs. Scott and Alison got so upset that they put me in my crate, where I belonged. You see, putting a dog in a crate is like making a rowdy two-legged kid stand in the corner and wear a dunce cap. Because Dada never had a dog, he came unglued and got huffy with Scott and Alison whenever they put me in the crate — this time because I wouldn’t stop jumping all over their dog. His majesty ranted and raved and threatened because Scott and Alison would dare criticize the one and only, Dog Superior, Mr. Darby. That could have been the end of me and Scott and Alison and Riggs, but Daddy and Scott are “12 Steppers” so they know how to clear up a small spat that otherwise could have turned into World War III.
Riggs and I are in the office with Scott and Linda Monday through Friday and we play like prize-fighters sparring. When Riggs makes that growling sound and flashes those big fangs of his, I run right at him as if we were in a title fight. We go at each other over toys and bones but when Dada sashays into the office to offer us a treat, Riggs and I sit like two mild mannered sissies. And of course, despite the calm stature, Riggs snaps those killer jaws at the treat, nearly amputating Daddy’s hand.
We even get to play outside in a landscaped cactus garden. Riggs is as smart as I am so we know not to raise our leg to pee on one of God’s prickly plants.
One day, Riggs and I really wigged out a man who works next door to the office. The paranoid dude is also a retired Marine officer, who, unsolicited, likes to tell people so as often as Dada likes to say that “Mr. Darby is peerage.” (Peerage means of noble birth for those of you with challenged vocabularies.) As Riggs and I romped, we engaged in what might have looked like a KISS concert. Anyway, the Marine asked Scott if Riggs and I were boy dogs. Scott said yes. “Then I guess they are homos because they are kissing,” the flat-top numbskull said.
Well, folks, let me tell you that there are more gooters in the Marines than in a Rainbow Gay Parade. (The Urban Dictionary says that “gooter” stands for a gay hooter and it is used to refer to two men riding on the same side of the street, predominately in South Florida.)
Scott told the imbecile, “They’re just dogs.” The stiff upper lip veteran strutted off like a confused homophobe. But my gut tells me he knew just what I was thinking. Now I know why a homosexual gets beaten within an inch of his life by such as this Marine do-do. Because he is different. Because he loves another man. There were two gay penguins making the world crazy last week because they were supposedly queer amphibians. Finally some Republican clucker like Rick Santorum butch slapped them and now supposedly they are straight waddlers.
Dr. Oler, the vet, told my Daddy that when a dog is neutered or spayed, then a dog is just a dog. Not boy or girl, just a canine, period. We get together without danger of a boy dog getting a girl dog pregnant. What else happens — which two-legs could learn from us “fixed” animals — is that the knife accomplishes what mon père attempts to do. He tries to show clients how to integrate their shadows. Dada’s theory, “discovered” by a man named Dr. Carl Jung, is that the reason humans, both men and women, have problems with one another is that their shadow, or invisible partner, is trying to make a man face his girl side and a woman her boy nature. In basic lingo, to achieve balance.
We canines are balanced from the moment we are surgically evened out. Too bad human beings can’t have a procedure like that. It would make il principe’s work a lot easier.
Then there’s Riggs and me and the biggest backyard in Red Rock Country. My keeper had a landscaper redo the yard for us dogs to roughhouse and poo and pee until our tongues were hanging out. But the way he carries on when Riggs and I dig a hole in the holy ground of this Better Homes and Gardens layout, you know all this was all about him and not just for my buddy and me. Scott kidded Dada unmercifullly until he gave us back our playground. Immediately we stopped digging up the manicured sod.
Riggs and I run around in that yard like there is no tomorrow. Scott tells everybody that I am the most fearless little rascal he’s ever met. He says that I would cross enemy lines to piss off an uptight biddy or to Alpha male another dog. And yes, he’s right.
When Scott brings me home to my house every afternoon around 3 p.m., Riggs and I both jump out of the car and pee. One afternoon, a fluff-and-puff bitch down the street, Honey Bear, was out on a walk with her mother. As soon as I finished with my business I took off running faster than a bat out of hell to get a little of that Yorkie-Poo sexy sizzler. Scott came roaring after me and when he did, he put me in the car and took me back to Dada.
You want to know what I think? Man, this dog’s life ain’t so bad, especially when I have Riggs in the morning and I get to sleep in Dada’s bed at night. He really should change the monogram on the linens to read MD — Mr. Darby. After all I am peerage from Iowa becoming a full-fledged healer in Sedona, the Mecca of the Southwest.
Two Legs Versus Four Legs
I love the way mon père tells a story. First off, the reason he has had so much grief about me is that he is as sedentary as I am a live wire. Case in point: his version of a slap-down on the sidewalk. He likes to say I wrapped my leash around his legs and tackled him. Truth? I saw a rabbit and went chasing after it. I happened to be on leash, the end of which was in Dada’s hand. He thinks it is so amazing that I found my way home. I knew where I lived from day one.
Il mio papà is a name-caller at times. What he calls a runaway when the door is open just a tad is simply the nature of us Wires. We love to run and we should have been assigned to the Daniel Boones of the world since we love to hunt. Dada has a hissy fit when I start for the great outdoors, but it is in my blood to want to go out any chance I get.
He told Scott that one of the reasons he wanted a dog was to get back into exercising. Walking is the best way to drop a few pounds. Man does my lord and master need to lose a few. If he walks a half mile he thinks he’s an Olympian. We need to walk two or three miles every day so mon père can turn blubber into muscle. I go on five-mile hikes with Scott and Alison and Riggs and I’m never winded. Okay, just a little, but I can keep up with them.
Walking is my chance to sniff out the territory. Dada ought to pay closer attention to why I want to be outdoors rooting around. Perhaps he doesn’t get what the “fox” of my breed means. We Wire Fox Terriers like to chase and catch, well, foxes and other vermin. When I get outdoors I am in Fox Terrier heaven. He keeps me cooped up in the house too much. In the winter I have to stay indoors more than in the spring or summer. He should dress a little warmer so we can stay out longer. Sometimes it works, but other times not. When I say I’m intuitive, I’m not just whistling Dixie. I
