So…what happens when you slap a rebel-related moniker on a dog?  You get a rebellious dog, that’s what.  But the fact of the matter is that it never occurred to me that Mark would actually decide to name our dog, Dixie.  There were so many other great names to choose from:  Sophie, Isabelle, and Ebony, just to name a few.  But instead, he chose the one name I never thought he would - and now, we’re paying for it.  Literally.

Not that I’m surprised.  You see, the word “Dixie” actually refers to money; more specifically the ten-dollar bills that were labeled “dix” - it’s the French word for “ten” - and once privately issued by banks in Louisiana.  Folks in the South called them “dixies,” and that’s how New Orleans and the other  areas heavily populated by the Cajuns became known as Dixieland.  [Of course, with the Civil War - and Jeremiah Dixon and his role in placing the Mason-Dixon Line - other states were eventually added to the mix and became the area we know as Dixieland today.]  So the fact that Dixie’s wound up costing us a ton of money kind of goes with the territory. 

Even so, who’d have thought that one dog could be so expensive?  I’m willing to bet the handful of nickels I’ve got left that her net worth currently supercedes the price of all the rice and tea in China put together.  Add that to the replacement value of the British monarchy’s jewel collection, and you’ve got some idea of what she’s cost in the two months we’ve had her.  So let’s talk about that a little - and we’ll get to the rebellious part another day.

First, there was her adoption fee and the donation we willingly gave to Happy Labs Rescue.  [They're a great organization and do everything out of pocket.]  Then there was the inital trip to the vet.  [Apparently, she wasn't given her puppy shots in the proper time sequence, so they all had to be repeated.]  A week later, there was another visit with the vet - this time, under emergency circumstances.  [She was so sick I thought she had a bowel obstruction.  Turns out that it was just a nasty case of giardia.  But even so, it still required seeing the doctor.]   And three weeks ago, we were back there again - this time to get treatment for demodectic mange.  [Okay...so it's not contagious to humans or other animals, but the six week medication treatment is a royal pain to administer.  It's not very tasty, she doesn't want that nasty stuff in her mouth, and trying to hold her while aligning the syringe and making sure that at least ninety percent of the medication hits its mark is more trouble than trying to give a cat a pill.]  And that was only the beginning.

There were also trips to PetSmart for toys -  LOTS of toys.  Honest to Gods, Folks…Dixie should be on the guerilla squad for toy testing.  She loves to play, but she plays hard.  And there’s not a toy on the face of this Earth that she can’t tear up in less than twenty-four hours - not even those labeled as “3X Tougher” or “indestructable.”  And since she was definitely lacking in manners - a fifty pound eight month old pup with no training whatsoever can be downright destructive - I enrolled her in the PetSmart eight week  beginner’s obedience course.  I thought it was the right thing to do.  In fact, I thought it was part of responsible “pet-parenting.”

In retrospect, I should’ve thought longer and asked more questions before plopping down our money.  Hell…I should’ve just turned off the computer, forgot about writing for a living, and set about training her myself.  Why?  Because that’s pretty much what happened anyway.  And if I’d done it at the onset, I wouldn’t have had to pay cold, hard cash for the privilege.

  Yeah…that obedience class at PetSmart was a complete waste of our Sunday afternoons.  What’s more, it was a doggie free-for-all.  [Imagine eight unruly dogs, all barking and yipping and tangled up in each others' leashes, noise so loud that you can't hear yourself think, and a trainer who has no clue how to get it under control.]  In fact, all Dixie learned in the first three classes was the “watch me” command.  And to be perfectly honest, I didn’t give a rat’s ass if she watched me or not.  I did, however, care if she obliterated everything we owned.  And watching me obviously wasn’t going to prevent that. 

But I digress.  From the second Mark decided that “Dixie” was a good fit for our new baby, there was hell to pay.  And, silly me…I never saw it coming.  First, she brought us one of Mark’s slippers.  Awww…what a SMART dog, we thought.  She wants to go out. WRONG!  Instead, she wanted to explore the slipper’s construction…with her mouth.  And that, Folks, was the beginning of the end of life as we knew it.

Yes…Dixie is quite the explorer.  But that’s not all.  She’s fond of a bargain, and LOVES the yard sale game.  [How do I know?  Because she's repeatedly stolen the knick-knacks from my book shelves with absolutely no intention of returning them.]  She likes luxury and has good taste.  [She hadn't even been here 24 hours before she relieved my ears of their diamond studs.   Fortunately, I was able to wrench them from her grasp - but not five minutes later, she liberated one of my gold hoops.  And before I could fish it out of her mouth, she'd already turned it into a mangled mess barely fit for melt-down.]  I discovered that she likes to read.  [She must since the cover of every copy of  National Geographic and Garden & Gun in our house is tattered; in fact, I even caught her with the Style section of the Washington Post the other day!]  She’s also well on her way to a Master Gardener’s certification.  [Last Thursday she was running through the house with my watering can in her mouth, happily swinging it by the handle.  Damn...I wish I'd gotten a picture of that!]  And if that’s not enough, she knows how to dress.  [Yep...she borrowed my favorite designer loafers a few days ago and restructured them to suit herself.  And when she was done, they didn't resemble anything even remotely connected to footwear!]

Okay…so Dixie is a Taurus - her birthday is exactly one week after mine - and I can’t help but believe that learning to “watch me” has contributed largely to our problems.  She does, after all, seem to love everything I have and want it for her very own - even Mark!  As aggravating as that can be - I’ve spent the last eight weeks of my life playing the “This-is-Dixie’s-this-is-NOT-Dixie’s” game and relocating our stuff to higher spaces - I can live with that. 

It’s the smoking at which I draw the line.

Smoking?

Dixie?

Yes!

You see, our girl has suddenly developed a penchant for paper products.  But not just any paper products, mind you - instead, she’s developed a love affair with our cigarettes.  Whole packs of them!  I, of course, thought that was easily handled.  All we had to do was remember to take them with us when we went from room to room. End of problem.  Or so I thought. 

Last Sunday, though, a different but related problem reared its ugly head.  It was one of those catch up days for me.  I had a jillion emails in my inbox, taxes to do, bank statements to balance, and a ton of other stuff I hadn’t been able to handle while chasing our errant pup.  So Mark offered to watch her while I got it all done.  Everything was going along great until - BOOM! - something exploded.  Literally.  I hit the living room at a dead run, nearly colliding with Mark .  And what did we find?

The remnants of an orange disposable lighter scattered all over the carpet.

You see, Dixie isn’t just slick…she’s a quick.  And in the split second it took for Mark to put a pan in the oven, she’d plopped those velvety paws of hers on the bar, stretched her neck to its full capacity, and plucked a lighter right out of its storage container.  Then she’d set about the process of chewing it to shreds.   [In all fairness, it wasn't Mark's fault.  Her rawhide chew was right by her mouth, so he thought that was what she was nibbling on.]

Fortunately, she wasn’t hurt.  But we were absolutely terrified by the fact that she could’ve been.  If only she’d been terrified as well, that might have been the end of it.  But she wasn’t.  Not even a little.  And before we could move the lighters to safer ground, she was already up on the counter trying to liberate another.

Well that spurred us right into action…again.  I found a trainer.  A good one.  And at this point, I don’t even care that she’s expensive or that it might take the rest of our lives to finish paying her off.  After all…I have it on good authority that Dixie - pain in the ass that she is - is worth it!

Stay tuned for the next installment:  The Battle at Fort Morrison!

Hugs!

Dorothy…