When I said “I do” last month on a cold October afternoon, I was saying I will to more than one male. Don’t worry, no brother husbands or anything like that. While my husband was joining a family of three girls, we were gaining a furry little rascal called Renly.
Renly is a 10-month-old tri-color Australian shepherd. If you happen to use the Rice Lake Dog Park (a gem of an asset in this town, by the way), you may have been forced to meet Lord Renly with a swift head butt to your legs or to the rib cage of your smaller dog. We’re working on that.
You see, Renly really really wants to herd. He’ll herd people, other dogs—children are a certain favorite. He looks to the sky at a honking flock of geese and I can see the longing in his chocolate brown eyes. If only I could fly! He just wants to control the chaos, and I totally get that.
I’ve recently found myself in a bit of chaos—a few upsets to the daily grind I’ve come to love, and head butting is one of a few centering tactics I haven’t employed….yet.
But I digress. I come from a long line of dog lovers. I have grown up surrounded by dogs my entire life. Dachshunds are my mother’s breed of choice, and while cute (and yippee), I’ve found myself migrating to bigger dogs.
Australian shepherds might be my breed. They are smart and kind spirited. Their “hyper activity” isn’t really that at all. I’ve been told by a very experienced dog person that it’s more of an intensity of adrenaline, which can shoot high or low in a matter of seconds. It’s instinct so they can get their job done. Controlling them is about controlling the space they think they own.
And Renly wants to control all the space. His body was made to push other bodies where he wants them to go, and God bless him, his little teenage mind at the moment is having a hard time adjusting to having not just one boss, but four.
Renly’s need to dominate the clan is palatable. He is never happier than when the girls come back from their dad’s house and the entire “pack” is together again. We affectionately call him “beef” because if he was human, he’d probably be a ‘roided up (albeit sweet) meathead pushing people around just because he can. More than once he has skidded headlong into a cupboard or door chasing down his ball or toy, emerging entirely unfazed.
But we’ve put a big halt on his physical dominating; one, because he’s now 55 pounds, and two, because it’s safer and better for him if he knows who is actually running the show.
Despite his physical need to dominate, he really is sweet natured, but very dramatic! When he finally realizes we are unrelenting on a stay command, his dramatic flop to the floor and subsequent sigh would win an Oscar every time. I swear he rolls his eyes so much better than the two pre-teenage girls in the house.
He’s totally a 10-month-old shepherd, but despite his age is well behaved and increasingly obedient. Throw in a visit to my original dog household over Thanksgiving though, and obedience becomes optional.
My mother’s philosophy in raising dogs has always been more is better—more dogs, more treats, more human food, more space for the dogs. Dogs basically rule the world in her house. Not so in our household. Battle of the “dog moms” commenced. We weren’t arguing politics at Thanksgiving, mom and I were locked in over treats.
I handily won when I mentioned that Renly doesn’t get human food and I suspected said human food was going to end up all over mom’s floor at some point if she didn’t stop slipping him juicy turkey bits.
She stopped, and all were grateful, except for Lord Renly, who once again did not get his way.
Gently Rise, Softly Call 