The Prestige: My Home-Schooled Dog

I am an accidental dog owner. Although I didn't happen upon Mazzy Sarah Maclachlan pitiful, covered in mud, whimpering in an alley somewhere and take her in or win her in a white elephant auction or foolishly enter into some foggy business transaction with a non-English speaking Gypsy and have her foisted upon me, I did become inextricably her Alpha Dog in nearly as significant a what-the-fuck-just-happened kind of way...although much less altruistically than in the Sarah Maclachlan scenario.

In retrospect, I was sort of cattleman Shanghai-ed; rancher magic tricked. I had a buddy who had an uncle who had two working Australian Cattle Dogs and those two ACDs did the deed and wound up with a whole litter of adorable little part Dingos. My buddy expressed an interest in owning one of the puppies and asked me if I'd like to drive out to his uncle's property with him to pick up his new dog.

"Sure," I said, "But I'm not going home with a dog."

"No problem," says he, "We'll only be there for a bit and I'm pretty sure all of the dogs are spoken for already."

I now know this to be the first part of a magic trick. The Pledge.

We rolled into his uncle's dirt driveway and immediately laid eyes upon a whole gaggle of rambunctious ACD hellions wrestling in the mud, nipping one another's recently docked tails, and moving in all ways like atoms being shot around a super-collider.

When I first saw Mazzy, I won't say it was love at first sight, but it definitely wasn't disinterest. She was the only she. She was the only one whose tail had not been docked, and she was staring up at a plane flying overhead. This is sort of the single guy's equivalent of walking into a coffee shop where a bunch of girls are comparing Coach purses, talking about Jersey Shore, preening, and then looking over to see a naturally beautiful woman reading A Death in The Family quietly by herself.

This is the second part of a magic trick. The Turn.

My buddy was trying to corral his new puppy and talk to his uncle while Mazzy and I shared a moment. She was energetic but not manic. She was playful but not dopey. She was inquisitive but not clingy. She was...

"She's yours if you want her," my buddy's uncle said.

"Ha! I'm just along for the ride," I replied. "I can barely take care of myself, much less a dog." Seriously. This wasn't just Texas banter. I liked to stay up late, sleep late, drink beer, come and go as I pleased, and lead a decidedly dogless life.

I might as well have said, "I love her! I have to have her!"

"My daughter wanted her, but she's being wishy-washy. Hang on, I'll call her," was the rancher's reply.

After a brief phone conversation (it easily could have been a dial tone on the other end of the line) in which the rancher's daughter decided that she could not take the dog, I found myself driving home with a puppy riding shotgun. How'd he do that?

This is the third part of a magic trick. The Prestige.

I'd be inclined to applaud, but my furry little prestige has continued to appear at the foot of my bed every morning for the last six years. Energetic has become borderline manic. Playful has become occasionally dopey. And inquisitive has most certainly touched on clingy.

For those unfamiliar with ACDs, they have energy for days. These are dogs who herd cattle, not bitchass sheep. They're rugged, athletic, tough as nails, and loyal/protective to a fault. Every time Mazzy and I see another dog on one of our runs (these runs are a necessity to bleed some of that energy), Mazzy goes all Regulator from that Warren G song and starts repping her hood. She's handy with the steel and she's damn good too. Mostly, this is an annoyance as it serves to nearly send me ass over tea kettle more often than not and, if she's ever able to get to the other dog, her Regulator attitude quickly devolves into licking and butt sniffing.



Additionally, she's way too smart for her own good. If I make a move to the drawer in the dresser with the running shorts in it, even if it's just to fold said shorts and put them away, her ears perk up and her tail wags and she goes to her leash. Once we're outside, she drumrolls the ground with her paws until she hears the beep on my watch and then barks and bounds joyfully for the first fifty yards or so of our run. And these aren't token runs to get her blood flowing a little bit. These are five to ten mile seven and a half or eight minute mile pace runs in all weather.

Her head is about to explode here. And yes, I'm wearing tights.

For a long time I thought the more we went on regular runs, the more she would mellow out a touch. Such is not the case. I've recently become aware that I've been training a world class athlete and she's only getting stronger and therefore more capable of the bounding, barking, chasing mania I was trying to defeat in her.

Now, before you go all Cesar Millan on me, understand that the kid has structure, discipline, and affection. In the house, she's an angel. She sits and waits and doesn't get on the furniture or tear up anything. It's only outside that she goes ape shit and really only when we see another dog. Essentially, Mazzy's home-schooled. She's a social retard. I've sometimes handled this patiently and philosophically, and I've sometimes thought about tying her in a pillowcase and throwing her in a river...or mailing her in a box to Sarah Maclachlan. Not really.

But really.

My question to the dog owners out there is this: Any advice on how to rewire a wired, home-schooled, socially retarded, genius athlete? Clearly, my six years of effort have failed to hit the mark.

Also, be careful with how generously you proffer your advice. I've been studying magic tricks and I'm pretty sure this was The Pledge.        

Damn you, poison ivy! Damn Youuuuuuuuuuu!

I'm getting over my second epic struggle with poison ivy this week. Although I wish I could write that as "Poison Ivy" and therefore, through the blogosphere, confess to you all that I am actually Batman and have recently vanquished for the second time the sexy and salacious villain of same name, I cannot. Alas, my poison ivy is a virulent little bitch of a vine/shrub/weed that has been the bane of my existence since I first encountered it as a child tromping around in the undergrowth of the creek that ran by my home pretending I was GI Joe.

My first youthful encounters with this spawn of Satan were more inconveniences than actual death matches, but since moving to Indianapolis four years ago, I have, on two occasions, been exposed to the urushiol that spews from its every surface and thereafter been subjected to the seeping misery that accompanies it.

How, you ask, has this happened? Well, my dog has A.D.D. and is too curious for her own good. Any overgrown area that smells faintly of chipmunk, squirrel, rabbit, or other woodland creature is immediately a target for her reckless tromping, sniffing, and digging. The urushiol gets on her fur, her fur gets on me, and voila! Horrible seeping rash.

The first time this happened, the rash that eventually appeared on my leg was bothersome, but no worries. A seeping leg rash can be easily covered with a bandage, jeans, and a little modesty. Plus, the scar that eventually formed there blended nicely with the multitude of other scars on my shins and knees that have been the consequence of what my fellow soccer playing friends call a "sometimes overzealous style of play." When they don't use that euphemism they just say "dirty." I'll argue that until I'm blue in the face, but I digress.

The second time this happened, just last week, I had finished doing a little yard work and was playing with the aforementioned A.D.D. canine and wound up with a disgusting, oozing swath of broken skin that extended from my shoulder to the top of my right ear. There's no hiding this. I was literally under house arrest for three days save for my mandatory trips to work (although I did take one sick day). Shaving was not and still is not an option. This is bad for someone who has to appear respectable on a daily basis. To boot, I am challenged in the facial hair department. Were I able to grow a Paul Bunyanesque man mask, things might not have appeared so bad. Unfortunately, my beard is what can best be described as "weedy" and is starting to get a little too much salt mixed in with the pepper. I also may wind up with a neck/facial scar from the whole ordeal. Scarface is a seriously cool nickname, but you want to get that nickname as a result of a knife fight in a Cuban prison, not a canoodling session with your beloved dog.

Which leaves me where? Well, I have a pretty serious poison ivy infestation in the backyard. I need to get rid of this poison ivy. Poison ivy is notoriously difficult to eradicate and I'm allergic as hell to the stuff. If you've got any suggestions, please throw a guy a bone. How far am I willing to go? Well, here's a list of things I would rather do than EVER be exposed to poison ivy again:

Go on an 8 hour road trip with Sarah Palin.

Masturbate with Tiger Balm.

Let a tiger masturbate me with no balm.

Cheer for the Mexican Men's National Soccer Team over the US Men's Team.

Paper cut my ass hundreds of times and then sit in a lemon juice bath.

Have a blistering sunburn on my business.

Wax my head.

Roll in stinging nettles.

Be stung on the tongue by bees.

Give a two hour PowerPoint presentation naked.

Watch my parents have sex (maybe not).

Get tipped over in a full Port-O-Potty...door down.

Go to a Justin Bieber concert.

Let David Beckham kick me in the crotch. Maybe just left footed, but the crotch nonetheless.

Eat a light bulb.

Kiss a hot stove.

Drink water wrung from camel shit in the Sahara with Bear Grylls.

The list goes on and on. Please leave your poison ivy eradication suggestions in the comments and any other things you would rather do than be subjected to rashes from this particularly onerous and evil flora. Help!