Sisters of a Different Mister

My pet pooch is weird. Just plain weird.

Though Queenie, my little Shih Tzu, is a carbon copy of my first edition of the same species, (Buddy), her personality and behavior patterns are far removed.

As I will allude further, Buddy was a home body. She’d wandered up in our yard one fine and sunny day, and immediately ‘staked her claim.’ We would allow her (yes, her) to go out the front or back door, and she would do what dogs do, ‘hang loose’ under a tree, and ‘take in the rays.’ A couple of times we forgot her; only to hear barking and scratching on the door. She knew ‘where her bread was buttered,’ and she wasn’t going anywhere.

On the other hand, Queenie cannot be trusted. A few years ago she covertly scooted out the front door. Sometime thereafter, our doorbell rang, and when I opened the door a teenage girl stood holding my wayward little vagabond. “Is this your pooch?” To which I responded with a nod, and a “thank you so much.” Jamie had discovered Queenie a couple hundred yards from my house, and ‘goin on down the road.’

Buddy hated to walk. If I took it on myself to walk her, I had to carry the blessed creature a few hundred yards, and it was only after I did a 180 towards home that she became willing to saunter back.

Queenie? Well, she absolutely loves to walk and will ‘hold it’ ‘til we have reached the western edge of Outer Mongolia.

I think no dog particularly enjoys thunderstorms, but Buddy tolerated them rather well, and I don’t recall any overt response to the booms and crackles for which the Tampa Bay area is so well known.

Queenie, however, ‘is a dog of a different color.’ The expensive pooch, (paradoxically, like Buddy) had been discovered running loose, and lost in a thunderstorm, and has never been the same. As the summer lightning flashes and the thunder rolls, she cannot be still, and more often, than not, excretes a puddle of yellow liquid on our carpet.

My wife and I enjoy going to the theater, and ‘take in’ a new movie a couple times a month, eat out, and attend church. For the longest time, as we prepared to depart the premises, I would place Queenie in her cage… until we arrived home in a thunderstorm one day, and discovered she had bumped her face against the wire bars so badly that some of her facial hair was missing, and the underlying skin was bright pink; for all the wear and tear.

That was the last time I put her in the cage.

As a result, some of the most ‘strange and wonderful’ things began to occur when she was left alone during thunderstorms.

Other than the recurrent wet spots with which she graces our carpet, Queenie has attempted to ‘make herself scarce’ when the thunder boomers, well, boom. Until we finally wised up and closed the hall bathroom door, she would seek refuge there, and push the door shut behind her, only to find herself alone in the dark; thus complicating her already tenuous circumstances. As a result, our hollow door has sustained a wealth of claw marks, and the floor is often littered with sawdust.

No such antics with our Buddy. She ‘earned her keep’ and then some. I recall the day when my wife was home alone, and heard the garage down go up. At the time this was Buddy’s temporary hang-out, and her bark sent the intruder packing. Later, we discovered several greasy footprints outside the garage door. And the lovely little pooch displayed such loyalty. After my daughter separated from her husband, and retreated to our spare bedroom, Buddy refused to leave her side. Subsequently, the hairy tyke began following my wife around the house; one factor in her decision to consult a doctor. They say dogs can smell cancer cells. Jean was diagnosed with early stage breast cancer, submitted to surgery, and is a ten year survivor of the disease.

In the past couple of weeks, Queenie’s weirdness has reached stratospheric levels.

A couple of times we have returned home to find the door beneath the kitchen sink standing open, and the bug spray, dish soap, and paper towels awry, or lying on the tile floor. Our demented, little pooch had discovered a way to open the floor cabinet, and almost succeeded in gaining access to a space which would have contained her, and several of her compatriots.

My wife and I talk about the day when Queenie ‘steps off the stage’ and goes on to her reward. And as we approach the grand old age of 70, we look forward to the kind of freedom which our ‘dog owning’ status currently disallows.

There was so much good to admire in our dearly departed Buddy, and a bit too much of ‘the lack thereof’ associated with our very much alive and well, Queenie.

To be sure, Buddy and Queenie are ‘sisters of a different mister.’ And, I admit, I feel almost guilty for having compared the two. The late Buddy and the very much still ‘there there’ Queenie, for all their apparent ‘twinness,’ remain as diametrically different as day and night.

 You know, all things considered, it takes a pretty smart creature to seek refuge in the only room with no outside walls, and shut the door behind her. And I admit it, I can get pretty impressed with a pooch who opens doors like her human master.

We made our daily pilgrimage to Outer Mongolia this morning, (and, would you believe it, the little queen withheld her liquid offering).

She definitely isn’t Buddy, 

…but I wouldn’t trade her for the world!


 By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary" Vol. 40. Copyright pending

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