I’d like to know which daft wanker coined the phrase, You don’t always get the pet you want. Sometimes, you get the one you need. I’ve been dealing with this curse since our beloved mutt Munster was put down, two months ago. With him, we got the dog we wanted: always cheerful, happy to be in our pack. A bit ill-mannered, but, over time, Munster settled down and became just about perfect. And then the veterinarian found that fast-growing tumor that allowed Munster only a few short weeks before needing to be put down.
We had a couple of weeks before our annual holiday to the lake, and going on holiday without our dog was unthinkable. In truth, I had started looking online for another dog before Munster even died. As I told the hubs, “I’m tired of having a hole in my heart every time an animal dies.” It wasn’t out of not caring about Munster’s passing; it was about now what do we do? Unfortunately, finding a German Shepherd that wouldn’t eat the cat was like trying to find a needle in a haystack. After considerable searching, though, I found a possibility. We made inquiries, and went to the farm to check him out. Without much in the way of the sort of enthusiasm we’d felt over adopting Munster, we brought him home.
It became obvious within a day or two that the new dog’s previous owner had beaten him into a sad submission. The new dog is so passive that he doesn’t even lift his leg to wee, but rather squats in a peculiar way to relieve himself. A few days into ownership with this dog, I realized that I was going to need the help of the trainer we (I) used with Munster. I rang her on Day 4 of ownership. Happily, she was able to fit me in at the weekend. Unhappily, the new dog was so damaged that he kept lying on his back and offering us his belly, rather than trying to understand what it was we were attempting to teach him.
The new dog could not be more different than chalk and cheese. Where Munster had been a confident, happy dog, the new one (we’ll get to his name in a minute) was frightened and insecure. Whenever he didn’t understand me, he would offer me his paw; it was, apparently, one of the few things he did know how to do. We crossed our fingers and packed him into the car for our holiday trip.
The new dog did not get along with anyone: neither the couple who holiday with us, nor their extremely patient dog. He seemed to think that we needed guarding, in our cottage, and we had no idea how to tell him otherwise. Our friends were as patient with him as their dog was, but all the barking and snarling was deeply embarrassing to me. When we would leave to wander into the village – or go anywhere that we couldn’t take him – we would shut him up in our bedroom until we returned. Evidently, he spent a goodly amount of his time in there barking. Ugh.
His name: his previous family had named him Rambo. After everything I’ve told you thus far, you’ll understand why that’s much too ridiculous a name for a dog as pathetic as this one. I needed something that sounded close enough, though, that he would know I was talking to him and not the wall. I decided on Hambone. The hubs, of course, continues to call him Rambo.
With regard to the quote at the start of this article, I must say that I really didn’t need this dog. After seven years of Munster’s cheerful countenance, Hambone is a drag on my patience, on my good nature, and on my optimism. There is no question of returning him to the shelter, however, as we made the commitment to take care of him for his lifetime. The woman in charge said that we could always bring him back with no questions asked, which makes me wonder how much she knew about him. Apparently, she knew more than she let on. What little she did tell us was that his previous owner’s children wanted a puppy, and since Hambone couldn’t get along with it, they got rid of him. I would call those people the c word, but I don’t want to get sacked for using bad language.
So, now, we’re two months into new-dog ownership. Hambone has accepted me as his Alpha, and I already have more control over him than the hubs ever will. My next goal is to give him a reason to smile (the dog, that is, not the hubs). Munster was a big smiler, and the idea that Hambone hasn’t had a reason to smile is heartbreaking. It will take time, but I’m confident that one day, Hambone will feel he’s part of our pack. In the meantime, we’ll spoil him rotten and treat him the way he should have been treated all along.
