Episode 1: Rebel, Son of Renegade
I am a dog. Yes, that is correct, a canine. Four legs, nice tail, the works. You might believe me if I told you that after years of lying around next to my masters’ desk, I finally figured out how to use his computer and type this story into Word. That is not the truth. I dictated it to the cat. Just kidding. The cat is an idiot. Let us try a leap of faith and accept that I have been blessed with the ability to transcribe my thoughts into this dialogue and let it go at that. And, by the way, my name is Lucy.
I am aware very few dogs have the ability to put thoughts in sentence form. Is it a blessing? You can decide after you read my story. Bear in mind, being willing to take time out of my short lifespan to tell my story was a big decision. As a sensitive female of six human years, thus around forty in dog years, and unable to bear offspring (not my choice, by the way,) I cannot let my life slip away without some documentation or waste the gift of my special ability to answer humans age old question, ” I wonder what my dog is thinking?’
I have been the queen of the castle for the last four years. When I was born, they had this giant first-generation Labradoodle who clocked in at 90 pounds. His name was Rebel, son of Renegade. Around people, he was the sweetest dog. He was trained well and did therapy in nursing homes and schools. Gentle, big cuddly bear of a dog. People always asked if he was an Irish Wolfhound. But, when the humans left the building, he became a devil. I came into his world when he was nearly ten years old. He had not slowed down on his seek and destroy persona. Some of the stories I heard, over and over, made the hair stand up on the back of my neck. And I have lots of hair on the back of my neck.
As soon as the door closed and the car backed out of the driveway, Rebel entered the kitchen and did a smell test. The game was on. Had the humans left anything interesting within reach? Not often. They knew the risks. Not to be deterred, Rebel’s true ability came from his opposable thumbs. Or so it seemed to the humans. Rebel was able to pull out, using the drawer handle, the sliding trash bucket compartment, pull the plastic bag full of trash completely out, and onto the floor, then have at it. I suppose he ate some of it, but to my eye, he seemed to enjoy dragging the mess around the house more than anything.
That was just his usual mischief. I have heard stories that my family tell their friends about Rebel. He was their only dog for quite some time. They usually take me on vacation with them and did the same with Rebel when he was the only dog. One of my favorite stories they tell is when they had a rental house on Cape Cod where the entire family met one summer. They have two sons and a daughter. The eldest son and his wife had a baby at the time. The younger son was in his twenties and the daughter was in college and brought a friend on the trip.
On the evening before they were leaving, they had cleaned out the refrigerator of anything they did not expect to use. Then they all left. They get food somewhere other than in the kitchen of the house. I know that for a fact since they often take me with them. I sit under the table and salivate while they gorge themselves on food. I know they love me when they begin handing morsels under the table. I am not complaining but even an idiot could see that they keep most of it for themselves.
The trash barrel in the cabinet under the sink was full to the top. Guess what. Rebel could open that cabinet. He made short work of the trash and a major mess of the house. He ate whatever was tasty and then struck gold. Also, under the sink, pushed to the back, was an enormous box of dog biscuits which must have belonged to the owners of the rental. Rebel devoured those as well. You think he may have gotten sick?
That is the part of the story when my female master (I try not to call her mom, but all the other kids do, so why not) gets animated. She goes on with the story. Not about the mess of trash, but the vomit all over the house. She cracks up when delivering the punch line. Her daughter was screaming. From upstairs came the cry, “That dam dog puked in my bra.” Sure enough, the largest pile of puke found in the daughter’s room, right in the cup. Mom laughs when she says she offered to wash it and the daughter says, “Hell no, there will be no washing. You need to buy me a new one.” That girl and Rebel never did get along very well.
Do not get me wrong, I love a dog biscuit as much as any dog. I especially like it when I sit in front of someone, they say “paw,” I reach up my paw and place it in the offered hand, then they say, “good dog,” and feed me a biscuit. I can do that all day.
Mom tells another Cape Cod dog biscuit story about Rebel which dispels the old myth that dogs, when left alone, do mischief out of boredom or angst over being left. The story goes that they were staying with friends who had a Golden Retriever. They were going to walk the few blocks to the avenue where restaurants were located. They were just up the block when Mom says that she was chilled. They all turned back so she could get a sweater. They had only been gone a couple of minutes, but, when they opened the door, they were awestruck by what they found. Rebel had reached a shelf in the laundry room, knocked down a box of biscuits and the two dogs were having a feast. I will never be in doubt of anything more obvious than the fact that Rebel had planned to do that at the first opportunity. He walked in and did it the minute the door closed. I swear, he was the devil in a dog suit.
I have heard so many Rebel stories in my short life. Compared to him, most dogs are angelic. Especially me. I will toss out more Rebel stories as they come to mind. He lived to thirteen. I was just under two when he died. I did come to love him. I always felt safe near him. When I was just a puppy, we grew close and traveled together the back of the van they had for trips. Surely, I cowered in the corner when the the family returned to one of his messes. Unless they found some telltale morsels on my muzzle, I was usually spared the screaming and yelling that was directed at Rebel. I often hid. But, as I said, he died, and I miss him. After he passed away, I was the one and only until recently. That is when the imp came into my life. A small Labradoodle they named Goldie. Eight weeks old and crazy.
But wait. I cannot tell you the story of Goldie until I have told you more about me. It would be bad chronologically.
