I named our dog Super because I thought it was cute, and it’s a name that’s suited him because it’s very adventurous and enthusiastic, but also has plagued him, because he’s a terrible dog. People think it’s really funny to call him “Super Dog” or “super duper” not realizing he’s really, really terrible.
As I sit here writing this, he’s laying on the couch beside me, giving me his soulful, resentful eyes.
Super’s perks:
– eats scraps of food to avoid garbage, such as carrot peels, strawberry tops, stale bread
– eats things that Caleb has spilled on the floor
– comes when he’s called
– will walk off leash with you on trails and in parks (except for bad habit of diving into muddy/swampy waters)
– is very warm on cold nights
– is very, very good at fetch
Super’s main flaws:
– becomes a maniac when he suspects strangers are trying to come into our house
– barks at noises
– barks at nothing
– barks when he suspects you’re withholding food
– will steal food off of tables
– will steal food out of the garbage
– will steal food off your plate
– will steal food out of your hand
– will steal food literally out of a two-year-old’s mouth
– squeals at the slightest hint of pressure (his vet once called him a drama queen)
– pulls on his leash
– lunges at small dogs
– has occasionally peed inside out of excitement, including once on 6 pillows at once
Super’s great redeeming quality is that he’s pretty great with Caleb. We have to remind Caleb constantly that the things he can do with Super he definitely cannot do with all other dogs: putting treats on Super’s nose, pulling Super around on his leash, jumping on him while he’s sleeping.
I remember when we first brought Caleb home to meet Super, I had a lot of faith in Super accepting the new member of the pack, which promptly turned into nearly giving one of them up – Super would start barking non-stop every time Caleb cried. A newborn and a barking dog: I almost lost it. Thankfully that storm passed relatively quickly (less than a day), and Caleb has been feeding Super treats and reading him books and pulling his tail ever since.
Super’s biggest flaw, though, is that he goes bananas when people knock on our door. Unless you’ve seen it action, I feel as though it’s hard to really quantify what exact bananas means, but you should take my word on it that you shouldn’t just knock on our door unexpectedly. We generally try to prepare people for his attack, or else hide him like the wife in the attic.
For the most part, we’ve avoided Super meeting too many little ones who come over to play with Caleb – with the apartment behind the shop, it’s been easy enough to leave Super in the warehouse by himself.
But up here at the cottage, it’s been the craziest thing. There are articles floating around these days, about how nature is good for kids with attention deficit disorder behaviours or kids who act out in school, that nature brings out the best in them – maybe that’s the case for our pup. Or maybe it’s just been something we’ve been underestimating him for all along. (I’m pretty sure it’s the former.)
It’s been crazy seeing him interact with babies and toddler’s coming over. Super’s always been a bit of a face sniffer/kisser with strangers, but he just licks and licks babies’ faces. It’s crazy to see him with his whiskers and cold nose and flapping tongue out in tiny fluttering kisses.
The other day we had another chocolate lab come over – the opposite of Super in so many ways. They’re both 8 years old, but Super has a ton of grey hair, while Cole has none; Super is a complete spaz, while Cole is incredibly calm; Super is tall and thin and lanky, almost still like a puppy even with all his grey, while Cole is stout and wide.
I’m always comparing Super to the cat or the baby or to other humans, but I guess it sometimes takes a comparison to another similar creature to see how truly distinctive an animal’s personality is, and to recognize how intimately you can get to know a furry thing.
making wild rice 