My Furry Family

Have I mentioned that I have four dogs? I had three. Then I acquired a step-dog through marriage. They range in age from seven to eleven years. Their temperaments vary from gullible to hyperactive. Their colors are black, white, gray and brown.

Rusty is the brown dog. He is the oldest and the biggest. He is the gullible one. My husband, Marty, says that Rusty has only two brain cells. This makes it difficult for Rusty to do two things at once, like figure out that he’s in the rain AND come in out of it. When I first got him, I bought him toys. He did not understand the concept. I could stand in the yard all day and throw a tennis ball and he would just sit there and look at me.

I think the chances of having a good nature are inversely proportional to intelligence. That makes Rusty with his two brain cells, one of the sweetest creatures on the planet. (Hmm I'm fairly intelligent. Does that make me a ... Never mind!) All Rusty wants to do is to be close to the people that he loves. That would be wonderful except for the way that he expresses his love: with a slobbery, wet tongue. Eeeeewwww! Few people can tolerate being licked by this dog. It’s like being slimed by and alien. You feel like your whole body is contaminated and you need to immediately take a shower.

Dashell is the gray dog. His ambition is to be the big dog. He knows that a softy like Rusty cannot last as king forever and he is always bucking for promotion. He’s like one of those nauseating yes-men that you see in the movies. He constantly hangs around me hyperactively flitting back and forth. “Are you going to the kitchen? I’ll come and protect you,” he seems to say. “Do you need a dog to pet? Here I am.” I can be in the office on the computer with Dashell sound asleep on the floor. If I turn in my chair to get up, he leaps to all fours, instantly awake. “Where are you going? Do you need a dog to go with you?”

Dashell’s most distinctive characteristic is that he is jealous. If I want Dashell to come quickly I can start talking to one of the other dogs. “Good boy, Rusty,” I say. Like a flash, Dashell is there, trying to wedge his very long Italian Greyhound nose between me and Rusty. If I am laying in bed and I reach out my hand to pet Rusty, I can be assured that the touch of Rusty’s head under my hand will quickly be followed by the feel of Dashell’s back on my arm as he pushes between me and Rusty.

Maxine is the white dog. She is part Husky. She has a very thick, soft fur coat. Maybe that’s why the boys love her. When they try to romance her, she is merely annoyed. She looks like Greta Garbo laying around in her fur saying, “I vant to be alone.”

If Rusty is the king, Maxine is his queen. She is the only toy that Rusty understands. He doesn’t know how to catch a ball, fetch a stick or even tug on a rope, but he loves to play with Maxine. They will side bump each other and start mock growling. Rusty will get down on his two front paws in the “Let’s play” position. They rush at each other and playfully chew on each other. When they are done they each have a wet, sticky head.


Pancho is the black dog. In this pack, he is the one who marches to a different drummer. Pancho came into the family with Marty. He has adjusted fairly well for someone who comes from a one dog family. (I’m talking about Pancho, not Marty.) All of the other dogs tend to do things alike. When I come home, they all go outside. Pancho stays on his blanket. When I roll over in the morning, they all wake up. Pancho stays under the covers.

Pancho takes after me. (I know he can’t really. He’s only my step-dog.) Life under the covers is snug and warm. Why would anybody want to leave? So, when it’s time to get up, I have to take drastic measures. I pull the covers off of Pancho. I nudge him with my foot. Once he gets out the bedroom door, he may veer off to the bathroom or Marty’s office. I get between him and his goal. When he sees that I have blocked his escape route, he scurries on his short, little, Chihuahua legs down the stairs and out the back door. He looks like an exposed rat running out of the pantry.

That’s our blended family. When people ask Marty what kind of dogs we have, he says, “one of each.”