My dog Tuco lives his life like a tiny retired mob boss who has seen enough of this world and would like to speak to management.
He is 6 1/2 years old, a chihuahua, and therefore comes preloaded with the simmering resentment of a creature who understands that nature made a clerical error. Somewhere in the cosmic warehouse, somebody packed 20 pounds of fury into a five-pound bag, slapped a fragile sticker on it and sent him straight to me.
Tuco runs hot and he runs cold. When he doesn’t want to do something, he doesn’t. And when he does, hellfire will rain down on anyone in his way. On walks, both of these states are often evident. When he wants to sniff something, you better grab a seat. This is going to take a while. When he wants to show off for the poodle at the other end of the dog park, you best not be in his way.
He recognizes smells. All of them.
Every mailbox is a novel. Every blade of grass is a breaking news bulletin. Every telephone pole is a Netflix series he has already watched but insists on revisiting for hidden clues. I have stood outside in the rain while he investigated a single leaf with the seriousness of a detective at a crime scene.
This would be less of an issue if Tuco did not also have a bladder the size of a thimble. Fortunately, I work from home, which means I am available to serve as his personal doorman approximately six times a day. Some people take coffee breaks. I take Tuco breaks, which involve putting on shoes, finding a jacket, locating the leash and then waiting while a very small dog decides whether the wind has offended him.
And the wind often has.
Working from home has many advantages. There’s no commute. You can eat lunch from a bowl over the sink like a raccoon. You can hold a professional video meeting while wearing slippers that would get you escorted out of most offices. But the greatest advantage, apparently, is that your dog can train you like a circus animal.
I started obedience lessons last month for Tuco. Finally. After four years of having him. Tuco was offended. He didn’t NEED obedience lessons. I needed obedience lessons. So we were working on classic conditioning, “Tuco, sit.” Then we would give him a treat. Tuco treated the whole charade like his personal slot machine set to tilt. He was perfect at class. Completely forgot the assignment the second he left.
Tuco has different signals for needing to go outside. Sometimes he stares. Sometimes he huffs. Sometimes he performs what I call “the hallway march,” a dramatic little parade from the living room to the front door and back again, as if leading invisible troops into battle. If ignored, he escalates to the tiny cough-whine, which sounds less like a dog and more like a squeaky hinge with a grievance.
Then there is bedtime.
Tuco does not believe in daylight saving time. To be fair, many of us don’t. Twice a year, the government reaches into our homes and jiggles the clock like a vending machine that ate its dollar. We all pretend this is normal because Benjamin Franklin once had an idea and apparently we’re still paying for it.
But Tuco is having none of it.
In Tuco’s world, when the sun goes down, the day is over. Finished. Put a fork in it. The factory is closed.
You best get up to speed with Tuco’s world, or you will be judged harshly. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to buy more treats. Apparently.
