Can we afford a Million Dollar Dog?
The Zaxorian took careful aim, squeezed the trigger, and unleashed the furious energy of his ionic disruptor. A rock exploded just over my shoulder. I dove for the ground, rolled, and pulled the pin on a plasma grenade, hurling it into my enemies' dugout. Three... two... one...
"Mrr-OWF!" My eyes opened. The digital display read 3:24. Not 3.24 gigajoules of destruction, just 3:24 am on a cold weekend morning. "Mrr--OWFF" repeated my puppy, fully waking me to his need to go outside. "Quiet, pup,"' whispered my sweet wife, pushing back the comforter. "I'll get him," I said, swinging my feet out of bed. "I was trying to fake him out, but he really needs to go." Grumbling inwardly only a little bit, I took him out and stood shivering in the snow, wondering how I'd returned to caring for dependents in the middle of the night.
When we first had children, I had made a point of being first up to change a diaper; being under-glanded for nursing, I figured I should at least clean and deliver the baby for feedings. With both kids now well past overnight interruptions, we had again became accustomed to a normal sleep schedule. Life was good. Two was the right number of kids for our means and our desires.
Then we became dog people. Well, not dog people, exactly, but definitely Mel people. Mel: a pound puppy of uncertain parentage; Mel Torme, the Velvet Dog; Melvis; Mel Mellington; part miniature Schnauzer, part leprechaun, a tousled, bedraggled little guy straight out of Central Casting: "Sid, I tell you, this pup is terrific! He's Benji without the entourage and the Milk Bone addiction. He's a natural for the down-on-his-luck lead in a Disney family film." We came, we saw, we loved him, we took him home.
Prior research had suggested owning a little dog would run six to nine hundred bucks a year. We could manage that. We didn't know we had acquired a Million Dollar Dog.
Shots, vet, toys, collar, grooming -- not bad, and the little half-pint only consumes about a dime's worth of food each day. But no one had told us those little jaws would chew through everything in sight, eating his way through bushels of cash like... uh... whatever dogs eat bushels of. The Inventory Of Destruction grows daily: pencils, book bindings, gloves, mom's Fuggs, all the "normal" mischief one might expect. Plus a new pair of wireless headphones, not yet used, sitting on a high table behind the sofa. Plus the silk covering on grandma's antique sofa. We're still taking bids on that one, but it's plenty.
The dog book suggests his breed are good mousers. Perhaps that explains the care with which he dug a hole through the living room carpet, straight through to the floorboard. Granted, we hate the rust-colored carpet we'd inherited, and figured we'd replace it when the kids had outgrown tracking mud through the house. But what if the pup applies his digging talents to something we actually wish to keep?
Then there's the opportunity cost. Working at home, I have the pleasure of his company all day, and in the morning, it is a pleasure indeed. Curled up on the toy sofa in my office, he's in charge of keeping me on task. I lean back to ponder for a moment. He raises his head, lifts a quizzical eyebrow at me. Need help with a figure of speech? Debugging code? No? Just loafing? Okay... get back to work, he admonishes, then goes back to sleep.
But come late morning, he starts wandering off. I start keeping an ear open for mysterious crunching sounds, gleeful growls as he he strews the guts of a stuffed animal around a bedroom. Investigating, chastising, and cleaning up after him keeps me busy. I figure he's worth a few hundred bucks a week in lost billable hours. So, if he stays on pace, he could rack up fifty thousand bucks of cost annually for the next twenty years, and qualify as a Million Dollar Dog.
Yet, he's probably worth it. His behavior is at least half our fault, says our dog trainer, whom we shall not name lest she be judged by her worst pupil. (He was by far the naughtiest boy in obedience school. Experienced owners brought their purebreds, show dogs, who could trace calculus equations in the snow; our little scamp wouldn't stop barking at them to come over here for a sniff. Embarrassing.) Catch him in mischief, and Mel fixes me with a perplexed stare: "You have bred me for curiosity, yet complain when I explore. You have bred me to be affectionate, yet you rebuff my close-hugging of your leg. WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME? I'M A DOG!"
Fair enough. And he is extraordinarily affectionate. Never have you seen a dog so tolerant of children. In his first month, we feared his legs would atrophy and fall off, because our youngest carried him everywhere. After school pick-up is Prime Time For Pups, when he joyfully greets and licks each of his many friends thoroughly, heedless of the shouting, squeezing and tugging in all directions. We feel we must apologize for the H1N1 flu racing through the community; who knew canine saliva was a primary vector?.
Even as I write, Mischief Boy has trotted into BTLynch.com Global Headquarters, his muzzle besmeared with hand lotion from a pot purloined from mom's nightstand. Oh, and look -- he just ate a library book. Put it on my tab, KPL, and notch another eight bones for the Million Dollar Dog.
"Mrr-OWF!" My eyes opened. The digital display read 3:24. Not 3.24 gigajoules of destruction, just 3:24 am on a cold weekend morning. "Mrr--OWFF" repeated my puppy, fully waking me to his need to go outside. "Quiet, pup,"' whispered my sweet wife, pushing back the comforter. "I'll get him," I said, swinging my feet out of bed. "I was trying to fake him out, but he really needs to go." Grumbling inwardly only a little bit, I took him out and stood shivering in the snow, wondering how I'd returned to caring for dependents in the middle of the night.
When we first had children, I had made a point of being first up to change a diaper; being under-glanded for nursing, I figured I should at least clean and deliver the baby for feedings. With both kids now well past overnight interruptions, we had again became accustomed to a normal sleep schedule. Life was good. Two was the right number of kids for our means and our desires.
Then we became dog people. Well, not dog people, exactly, but definitely Mel people. Mel: a pound puppy of uncertain parentage; Mel Torme, the Velvet Dog; Melvis; Mel Mellington; part miniature Schnauzer, part leprechaun, a tousled, bedraggled little guy straight out of Central Casting: "Sid, I tell you, this pup is terrific! He's Benji without the entourage and the Milk Bone addiction. He's a natural for the down-on-his-luck lead in a Disney family film." We came, we saw, we loved him, we took him home.
Prior research had suggested owning a little dog would run six to nine hundred bucks a year. We could manage that. We didn't know we had acquired a Million Dollar Dog.
Shots, vet, toys, collar, grooming -- not bad, and the little half-pint only consumes about a dime's worth of food each day. But no one had told us those little jaws would chew through everything in sight, eating his way through bushels of cash like... uh... whatever dogs eat bushels of. The Inventory Of Destruction grows daily: pencils, book bindings, gloves, mom's Fuggs, all the "normal" mischief one might expect. Plus a new pair of wireless headphones, not yet used, sitting on a high table behind the sofa. Plus the silk covering on grandma's antique sofa. We're still taking bids on that one, but it's plenty.
The dog book suggests his breed are good mousers. Perhaps that explains the care with which he dug a hole through the living room carpet, straight through to the floorboard. Granted, we hate the rust-colored carpet we'd inherited, and figured we'd replace it when the kids had outgrown tracking mud through the house. But what if the pup applies his digging talents to something we actually wish to keep?
Then there's the opportunity cost. Working at home, I have the pleasure of his company all day, and in the morning, it is a pleasure indeed. Curled up on the toy sofa in my office, he's in charge of keeping me on task. I lean back to ponder for a moment. He raises his head, lifts a quizzical eyebrow at me. Need help with a figure of speech? Debugging code? No? Just loafing? Okay... get back to work, he admonishes, then goes back to sleep.
But come late morning, he starts wandering off. I start keeping an ear open for mysterious crunching sounds, gleeful growls as he he strews the guts of a stuffed animal around a bedroom. Investigating, chastising, and cleaning up after him keeps me busy. I figure he's worth a few hundred bucks a week in lost billable hours. So, if he stays on pace, he could rack up fifty thousand bucks of cost annually for the next twenty years, and qualify as a Million Dollar Dog.
Yet, he's probably worth it. His behavior is at least half our fault, says our dog trainer, whom we shall not name lest she be judged by her worst pupil. (He was by far the naughtiest boy in obedience school. Experienced owners brought their purebreds, show dogs, who could trace calculus equations in the snow; our little scamp wouldn't stop barking at them to come over here for a sniff. Embarrassing.) Catch him in mischief, and Mel fixes me with a perplexed stare: "You have bred me for curiosity, yet complain when I explore. You have bred me to be affectionate, yet you rebuff my close-hugging of your leg. WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME? I'M A DOG!"
Fair enough. And he is extraordinarily affectionate. Never have you seen a dog so tolerant of children. In his first month, we feared his legs would atrophy and fall off, because our youngest carried him everywhere. After school pick-up is Prime Time For Pups, when he joyfully greets and licks each of his many friends thoroughly, heedless of the shouting, squeezing and tugging in all directions. We feel we must apologize for the H1N1 flu racing through the community; who knew canine saliva was a primary vector?.
Even as I write, Mischief Boy has trotted into BTLynch.com Global Headquarters, his muzzle besmeared with hand lotion from a pot purloined from mom's nightstand. Oh, and look -- he just ate a library book. Put it on my tab, KPL, and notch another eight bones for the Million Dollar Dog.