WOOF

My Mother was a Dogaholic. She belonged to a sect of people who have a serious addiction. I think these people live very different lives from those of us who may like dogs and even have them as pets, although Dogaholics are loath to refer to them as “pets”. These are people who think of them as part of the family, treat them as such, and, may in fact, in the familial order of things, place them above other human-type family members. My brother, sisters and I were way down on the ladder in our childhood household.

Anyone who might call this an exaggerative post need only Google “dog lovers” and bite their tongues. You can indulge your canine pal with doggie yoga, massages for Fido, gold crowns, baptizing kits and to my mind the ultimate stupidity in wasting your money, a doggie cell phone. Yep, as the ad reads it’s a “bone-shaped cell phone that will let dog owners talk to their best friend over a two-way speaker.” This will absolve you of all guilt when leaving Maxwell home alone each day. He’ll wait eagerly for your lunchtime call, anxious to share his morning’s adventures. And, it’s only going to set you back about four hundred dollars (service plan, taxes and local fees not included- this spoken in that very fast voice they use on radio).

In addition to all of the money flushed down the drain by investing in this crap, there exists the very real danger of a Dogaholic becoming increasingly distant from his or her human friends and relatives. Don’t laugh. Been there, done that.

My Mother cooked special meals for all of her pets. We’d smell ground round frying in a pan and dream of the dinner waiting on the table, only to be confronted by overcooked spaghetti with tomato sauce. Meanwhile, Dolly or Gigi or Foofoo would be wolfing down that ground round mixed in with fluffy white rice. We quickly became alienated from her pets and they grew distant from us, as we would often find ourselves growling at them and they at us when dinnertime approached. It’s hard to imagine now that something sitting on the dining room floor in a plastic bowl might look really appetizing.

This insult to our sensibilities was capped by the issue of physical harm. My Mother was far more concerned about the welfare of her dogs than any of us. I can remember any number of mornings walking down the stairs and through the living room to the kitchen with a Scottish Terrier firmly attached to my pants leg, growling loudly. Any attempt to dislodge the little bastard was met with a screech from the Doggie Goddess. “Don’t you hurt that dog!” I’d head for the bathroom, daub some mercurochrome on bite marks and dream of one day sinking my teeth into that terrier’s underbelly.

Now I know my Mother might seem a bit over the top on this stuff, but honestly, could these same behaviors be exhibited by someone willing to dress their Greyhound in a bunny costume for Easter, cell phone placed jauntily between the two floppy pink ears? Would someone who willingly dropped their poodle off at a two-hundred dollar a day doggie spa have a warped sense of values? It’s possible.

I will admit readily that I do not have the credentials to figure out what causes I do know that my mother was actually a pretty good mother to all of us until we hit the age of about two. Up until then, we were like dolls, which, like dogs, she also collected. After that, like any kid that age, we got a lot less compliant and at times, downright annoying. We didn’t seem to be as appreciative of things done for us. We could be messy, smelly or sick, as long as we wagged our tails at the right moment when given a cookie or a pat on the head. If not, we got knocked down the familial ladder, right under Dolly or Gigi’s ass. And I think that’s where the answer lies. Dogaholics like dogs because a dog will love you no matter what. Even dogs that are abused don’t tend to turn on their masters or mistresses.

People on the other hand, even little people aren’t quite so predictable or compliant. For instance when I was four, at the height of my child modeling career (I was a cute kid), my mother, at the behest of a photographer, tried to stick a dress on me for a photo shoot. I rebelled, causing quite a ruckus and bringing my modeling career to a sudden end. I also finally got a haircut, as my Mother had kept my blonde hair quite long, no doubt for just such an occasion. This act of defiance came back to haunt me until the day my Mother died. Consider that she routinely dressed that nasty male Scottie  of hers in a bright plaid coat and tied bows in his hair before trotting him around the neighborhood. He was quite happy with this arrangement. I was such a disappointment.

By the way, when my Mother died in 2001 at the ripe old age of 93, she left specific instructions that most of her current and recent dogs' ashes (all eight of them) be sent to the hereafter right alongside of her. Prior to her death, they had sat on a high shelf in the kitchen. Yeah, the kitchen. The early models are buried at Bide-a-Wee pet cemetery in Long Island, with the eternal care option added to each, of course.

My Sister, Brother and I spent a good deal of time during the calling hours surreptitiously stuffing the little tin containers into the coffin next to Mother (though admittedly, not all of them) after which we bid farewell to her as her remains and their cremains were wheeled off. I do believe I heard a rattling sound as the coffin passed by.