Road Apples
Dec. 11, 2006

Please have snow and mistletoe, and bacon on the tree

By Tim Sanders

It is that time of year again. It’s the season when our family looks forward to the pitter-patter of little feet on Christmas morning, and to those sparkling eyes growing wide with wonder as they survey what awaits them under the tree. And, of course, there are always those cries of excitement which echo through the house like so many silver bells:

"ROOOWF, ROOWF!"

That’s right, my wife and I wrap presents for our dachshund, Maggie, and put them under the tree. We do this every year because–and believe me, I’ve given this a lot of thought–we are ... idiots.

I’ve mentioned Maggie before, and have always been quick to point out that a) she is not intellectually gifted, but b) canine intelligence is due, mostly, to genetics, not environment. It has been my contention that my wife and I are not responsible for our dog’s belief that all human beings, with the exception of Marilyn, our son David, and me (and sometimes she’s not too sure about David), are after her for her pelt.

We invited Marilyn’s sister and her husband over for Thanksgiving dinner. After we’d eaten, while Marilyn and her sister were cleaning the kitchen, Maggie came skittering around, nervously eyeing Elaine, trying to determine just what kind of treachery she was planning. Elaine, hoping to put Maggie at ease, reached to pet her. And when she did, she pooped on the floor. By which I mean Maggie pooped on the floor. That is always Maggie’s way of discouraging unwanted advances, and it worked beautifully. Elaine shot like a rocket to the other side of the kitchen, while Marilyn and I cleaned up the discouragement nuggets. We have a dog who is perfectly housebroken, and never, ever has an "accident" in the house, except when someone visits. Which proves, as far as our visitors are concerned, that Maggie’s main function is to fertilize our linoleum.

And there are other indications that Maggie is challenged. She loves playing, and her favorite toy is her tennis ball. She will scamper gleefully across the floor with her tennis ball, toss it in the air, and eventually roll it toward a trusted family member so that he or she will try to kick it past her. Kicking Maggie’s tennis ball past her is almost impossible, since she takes her tennis very seriously and plays an excellent net game. But problems always arise when eventually, due to a serve or a lob gone badly awry, that tennis ball winds up under a dresser or a cabinet. Now, an intelligent animal–Lassie, for example, or John McEnroe–would either get down on its haunches and use an old tennis racket clutched in its teeth to retrieve the ball, or move something aside to fetch it. Maggie, on the other hand, sneezes at it several times, and then, if that doesn’t encourage the ball to come out, scratches a piece of furniture somewhere in the ball’s vicinity.

For a couple of years, now, we’ve kept Maggie’s doggie biscuits in the same floor-level kitchen cupboard. And for years, Maggie has communicated her desire for a biscuit by scratching on that cupboard door. One day we noticed Maggie standing with her nose about an inch from the door, staring at it intently. She looked at the cupboard for a few minutes, and then walked toward us, and back to the cupboard again. No scratching, just staring as though her little tiny particle of brain thought she could bore a hole in that door using her laser vision and extract a biscuit all by herself. Of course we couldn’t stand the spectacle of our little genius staring at a cupboard door, so we gave her a biscuit, and she was satisfied.

A few months ago Marilyn brought home some doggie cookies, which are much tastier than the biscuits. They are crispy and bacony, with just a touch of garlic. We keep those cookies in a cabinet a few feet away from the biscuit cupboard. Maggie the biscuit dog immediately became Maggie the cookie dog, and has long since forgotten her biscuits. But now when Maggie wants a cookie, which is about every fifteen minutes, does she go to the cookie cabinet? No, she still walks over and stares at the biscuit cupboard. And if there just happens to be a box or a grocery bag in front of the biscuit cupboard, she simply goes to another nearby cupboard and stares at it. Does she think that the biscuits, or an alert box of Cheerios, will somehow communicate her wishes to the cookies, and that one of them will leap from its little bag into her mouth? Does she think at all?

Well, and here’s a news flash, YES SHE DOES! When Maggie wants strangers to leave her alone, she poops, and they oblige her. When she wants somebody to fetch her tennis ball from under a china cabinet, she scratches on a table leg, and either Mommy or Daddy dutifully retrieves it. When she wants a cookie, she stares intently at whatever cupboard is handy until somebody produces a cookie. Why expend any more effort if what you’re doing works so well?

Maggie also knows all about Christmas. As the tree goes up and the living room is decorated, she feels the excitement. And when Marilyn finishes wrapping the presents and puts them under the tree, Maggie is no different from the rest of us. Her little mind senses the true meaning of the season, and tells her "ME GET PRESENTS!" And on Christmas morning she’ll happily tear the wrapping off those presents with her teeth, wag her tail and dance around the house with her new toys. Just like the rest of us.

No, lately I’ve come to the conclusion that Maggie is much smarter than I’d thought. She’s no Einstein, but then again I’m sure that by the age of four Einstein still hadn’t mastered the art of staring at a cupboard until somebody gave him a dog biscuit.

Unless his parents were as dumb as a couple of local people I know, who shall remain nameless.