Doggie Style

I have a step-son. He is ridiculously intelligent. Gorgeous. In great shape. At times, he is a big baby. At other times he is extremely playful and is a huge tease.

He also happens to be a ten year old Jack Russell Terrier.

Tildon aka The Boss of Us Humans...is a character and a half.

In the mornings, Tildon...the moment he hears David and I start talking either emerges from beneath the covers or from his bed at the foot of our bed. He leaps onto us, showing no care or concern where his paws land...and more than once they have been planted firmly in mine or David's man bits. He then starts a ritual where he attempts to lick every trace of salt from our skin and hands...becoming increasingly more excited and increasingly more insistent as he nudges and prods and moves our body parts into positions best suited for salinity reduction.

Once we tire of his insistent tongue and order him to stop licking, the mind games begin. He will stop...pretending to look over or through us...and with his eyes firmly planted on ours will slowly lower his head and extend his tongue...thinking that we can't see him. When we finally impress upon him that the tongue bath is, indeed, over, he goes crazy. He begins flipping and flopping on the bed...rubbing his crazy into the bed sheets, twisting his body at odd angles, and throwing fine white hairs into the air.

Then he starts to talk.

This dog almost never barks. But he talks. His range of vocal utterings is extremely impressive. He talks only when he feels it is time for him to go outside, and I promise you, his internal clock is attuned to the Atomic Clock. At 9am, 12pm, 6pm, and 10pm...the dog starts by approaching the human most likely to succumb to his cuteness and acceed to his demands to go outside. Usually, that is me. I haven't yet built up enough spiritual armor to resist his liquid brown eyes. If his Jedi mind tricks don't work. He scoots closer to you...hoping that proximity will increase his efficaciousness. Then...if that doesn't work...up he comes...one paw on your leg.

At that point I usually buckle.

Once you stand up, all bets are off. All of a sudden it's “Go Go Gadget Tildon,” and the dog is bouncing three or four feet in the air and talking. It is clear that he is giving exact instructions as to how and what and when and where I should be going and doing. If you still resist, he gives you a scathing lecture in Doggonit (the language of the Canine Nation).

Once outside, if he is with me, he is generally obedient. But, I am convinced he believes he is walking me. He prances on his toes and every few feet looks up to make sure I am doing what I am supposed to be doing and not cruising some other dog or wandering off to sniff at random guys butts. He waits patiently while I pick up his poop, and he leads me to the nearest trash can so that I can dipose of it.

The dog is so the boss of me.

But the creepiest and most wonderful thing in the world is when David or I come home after being gone for a couple of hours. The dog actually smiles. Dog's are carnivores...their teeth are sharp. It would be as if Dracula saw you, dropped the fangs down, and let loose with a toothy grin. Not the most comforting sight in the world. But it is full of pure doggie love.

At night, as we go to sleep, Tildon nudges the covers and crawls beneath them. He generally wedges himself between David and me. One of us is honored by having his head wedged under his back...while the other gets Tildon's pointy claws diggin' into some fleshy part of our abdomen.

He's a good dog.