There is a joke I’ll see on the Internet every now and again, and it says that if alien life were to visit and see us they would think dogs ruled. To the foreign mind, seeing a person following on a leash behind a dog and picking up that animal’s poop, makes it obviously clear who is in charge.
In my house, it doesn’t take an extra-terrestrial perspective to figure out who has all the smarts. That distinguished honor belongs solely to my dog Finn.
This is something I suspect he knows because he flaunts his intelligence like a little kid with a giant candy bar. Whenever we try to outsmart him with leashes and collars and fences and doggie treats he somehow turns it on us Road Runner style and someone ends up wrapped in rope as Finn signs off with a condescending “meep, meep” before speeding off. Yet despite knowing this, we willingly accept the role of Wile E. Coyote over and over again.
For instance, Finn’s size is beginning to mean that when he wags his tail near a wall, there is a good chance that wall may be knocked down—or at the very least receive a large hole from where his tail hit. Since the weather is getting warmer, we’ve decided to make Finn an outside-during-the-day dog.
Finn is not used to experiencing discomfort in the form of the sun being slightly too hot, the wind being slightly too whippy, or the fact that there are bugs and birds outside. And so he sits calmly by the sliding glass door. He watches us as we go about our daily chores. And when someone visits, his eyes grow about twice their size and he politely sits and waits.
Then, feeling sorry for him, someone lets him in.
Suddenly he grows into the size of a buffalo and starts running circles around the now too-small house. He slides into the TV, he crashes against the couches, and he jumps onto everyone. Then we put him back outside and send all the other kids outside to play with him.
If behaving nicely outside doesn’t get someone to let him in, he will behave not so nicely. He will pull out my grapevines or dig a giant hole right in our line of sight. After repeatedly telling him to stop, someone will finally scold him and bring him inside and tell him to take a time out in his crate—which is where he wanted to be in the first place—and so he nestles into his blanket and settles in for a safe, dirt-and-bug-free nap.
That Finn prefers to be inside doesn’t mean he doesn’t like being outside. He just likes to be out there on his own terms. So he has devised ways of making that happen, too.
When the kids play ball with him or my husband works in the garage, he’ll stick by their side following their every move. This instantly plays to everyone’s desire to be alpha, and I’ll hear, “See, he’s learning. He’s not running away.”
This is usually followed by some choice curse words. What happens next is becoming a weekly ritual in our house.
Finn runs off and suddenly people begin pouring out of my house like Shriners out of a tiny clown car. We scatter in all directions. Everyone, including friends and visitors, are tasked with looking for Finn. And when someone finds him, he stops and waits until we get close and will then run circles around the person before darting off again.
This game goes on until one by one everyone gives up on catching Finn and heads back home. The most maddening thing happens at that point. When the last person goes to shut the gate and come inside they usually find Finn already inside the gate waiting for a fresh bowl of water.
I would laugh it off and say that our dog needs training, but I know it’s not he who needs training, but us, because this series of events happens more often than I care to admit.
Or maybe, as I suspect, we are trained. Maybe Finn’s wild ways are just part of a sneaky little plot to get us to do what he wants.
Either way, we can’t stay mad at him.
This is the same dog that will let my son dress him up in sunglasses and Hawaiian leis so long as he’s allowed to be part of the gang. He’ll high-five, jump up, spin around, and shake hands all at the same time if we offer him a peanut butter treat. And the other day, when I was really sick, all I wanted to do was wrap a blanket around my shoulders, let Finn sit on the living room floor, put my feet on his back and smoosh my toes in his fur as we enjoyed a lazy sick day.
But shhh, don’t tell anybody.
Finn is a master human trainer, expert escape artist, and pro at getting his way. Reach his master Shelly Cone through her editor at clanham@santamariasun.com.
This article appears in Jun 11-18, 2015.
