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Dad does electrical work for all sorts of people, and one of his clients was a dog breeder. He bred several varieties of dogs, but was looking for a home for one of his studs. This dog was a miniature pinscher by the name of Hoffstadter's Red Baron, but he answered to Terry. Terry had absolutely perfect confirmation and proportions, except that he was too big. He was about two inches too tall. Otherwise, he'd have been a champion.
The weeks before we got Terry, I would have daydreams that he would choose me as his favourite person, and that the two of us would be inseparable.
But when he finally showed up, I changed my mind.
He was a nasty, yapping little creature. Although I'd had dogs throughout my childhood, they'd all been longhairs. This was the first shorthair dog, and his nudity seemed obscene. He was a stud dog, and his genitalia seemed particularly protuberant. It made me uncomfortable, and my eyes were constantly drawn to it.
It didn't helped that whenever he barked, his bits quivered. And it especially didn't help that he appeared to never stop barking.
After a while, I did get used to this, and no longer felt like a perv for staring at the dog. But I never did get to like Terry. He was a nasty, nervous little thing who nipped at you, and who also let loose with every body fluid conceivable. He crapped everywhere. He peed everywhere. He humped everything. He was a repulsive little dog.
But in Dad's eyes, he could do no wrong.
I resented Terry. If a cat were to pee on the floor, it was summarily executed. But Terry regularly left turds and puddles everywhere, including on my bed, and experienced no extreme punishments. It was terribly unfair.
Terry was a spiteful and crafty dog. He had a chip on his shoulder, and perceived insults on a regular basis. We also had another dog, Buoy, who was much larger, and who would gleefully eat Terry's food. So I'd shut Terry in the upstairs with his dish so Buoy couldn't get at it.
Terry, however, believed I was locking him upstairs out of malice, so he couldn't get downstairs where all the fun surely must be taking place. And he rewarded me for this act of treachery by letting loose his bowels all over my bed.
He knew he was doing something wrong, too. Because when we came home, he'd launch himself out the door screaming and kiyi-ing with his stump of a tail jammed as far between his legs as he could get it. And what made it worse was that every time he was plagued with guilt, he'd spray piss and shit everywhere.
In fact, he'd jettison turds like torpedos. Sometimes they'd launch a full three feet from his anus before hitting the ground. It was both repulsive and impressive, all at the same time.
Terry had other talents, too.
He was a natural mimic. When we first got him, he had a sharp-sounding little bark, like a scaled-down Doberman's. But whenever he heard another dog bark, he'd practice that sound until he had it right. He yipped like a poodle after meeting one. He also bayed like a Bassett Hound. And, most interestingly, he barked like a seal after we spent some time near a harbour. We lived in the middle of coyote country, and he perfected the eerie ululation of the packs who roved the area.
He was also a consummate glutton. Perhaps it came from living in a kennel with so many other dogs. But when food was to be found anywhere in the vicinity, he'd eat it all, or die trying. One day, my Aunt Phyllis came to visit. She takes great pleasure out of feeding people and animals. She was making a big Newfie supper when Terry came begging. So she gave him scrap after scrap, expecting him to go away after a while.
I was attracted to the kitchen by the sound of the dog crying. Phyllis was feeding him like an automated system, with the most incredulous look on her face. "My land! He won't stop eating!"
The poor dog, normally wasp-waisted, was distended all over. His abdomen was full to exploding, and was much bigger around than any other part of him. "Stop, Phyllis! You're killing him!"
And so I saved him from death by exploding.
Terry was a coward and a bully. He would gleefully pick on or attack anything which offered no resistance. Since most things will offer resistance, confrontations would start as a vicious attack on Terry's part followed by him screaming, yiking, crapping everywhere, and choking himself on his collar while trying to back away at high speed.
He was petrified of snakes, but had a strange attraction to frogs. Maybe it's because they didn't fight back. While out canoeing one day, Dad picked up an enormous bullfrog with his paddle and brought it close so I could examine it. Terry took a wild lunge for the paddle, jaws snapping and mouth salivating in a Pavlovian fashion. The frog didn't even twitch to save itself. I tore it from betwixt Terry's snapping jaws and flung it spinning across the water like a frisbee.![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
raine_storm clutched Terry so he wouldn't go in after it.
Terry, like Cocoa the pony, was very flatulent, probably because of the prodigious amounts of food he packed away. He liked to sleep in a cardboard box with his blanket completely covering him. While we sat on the couch, we'd sometimes be accosted by the sharp, sickly sweet smell of dog fart. His blanket would wriggle, his nose would emerge, and his nostrils would flare and contract in rapid succession. Then he'd burst from beneath the blanket, bark at us accusingly, and flee from the room.
He loved his blanket, probably because he was often cold due to his short fur. He hauled it around, and would bury himself in it when he laid down to rest or have a snack. He liked to chew on big, juicy bones up on the couch, where he'd be promptly evicted whenever we caught him. I wasn't fond of stretching out on the couch and coming in contact with a gnawed-on beef hip.
One day, I came in and saw the blanket moving on the couch. I could hear telltale gnawing sounds. "Terry!" I yelled, as I hauled the blanket off the couch. He stared at me with a guilty expression. But it wasn't a bone in his mouth. It was a big, frozen lump of horse turds.
Terry liked to watch tv. He liked to watch certain programs. His favourites were pornos. Through trial and error, he figured out how to change satellites with the remote control, and I remember coming home, when there were no humans present, to see the satellite dish changing position. When I went to the living room, Terry would be sitting on the couch watching a skin flick.
It was uncanny.
I suppose it had to do with his past career as a breeding stud. His hormones always had him kicked into high gear. Around this time, Dad loved to douse himself in Ralph Lauren's Polo cologne. I hated the smell. But Terry loved it. No, I mean he loved it. As in, it sent him into rapturous hump frenzies.
One day, Dad put on far more Polo than usual, and Terry was transported with lust. He began chugging away at Dad's leg. Dad shook the dog off, and he made his way over to each of us in turn. When we all kicked him off, he started humping the couch. We shooed him away, and he humped the vacuum cleaner until we sent him away. He tried romancing the homophobic Buoy, who snapped at him, and he finally settled on sodomizing Purrcy, the compliant tomcat.
Terry met with a bad end. One winter night, in my second year of university, we let the dog out to go to the bathroom. It was a cold night, so he never stayed out long. We ate our suppers and listened for him to bark to be let back in.
He didn't bark.
He'd been out for quite a while, and it was very cold, so we went looking. We called for him, but he didn't answer. So Dad and I walked outside to take a look.
We found him at the bottom of the yard, at the end of a trail of blood. He was being devoured by a beautiful coyote. We ran down toward them, and the coyote stood her ground, snarling and puffing up her ruff of yellow-grey fur. Dad got his rifle, took aim, and shot her in the heart.
We looked at Terry aghast. His hind legs had been eaten, and he was hitching himself toward us with his front paws. So Dad shot him, too.
From the looks of things, Terry'd come outside, been chased into our cellar, and attacked right inside our basement. The coyote had then dragged him back outside for her meal.
It was probably the only time Terry'd ever been quiet in his entire life.
The weeks before we got Terry, I would have daydreams that he would choose me as his favourite person, and that the two of us would be inseparable.
But when he finally showed up, I changed my mind.
He was a nasty, yapping little creature. Although I'd had dogs throughout my childhood, they'd all been longhairs. This was the first shorthair dog, and his nudity seemed obscene. He was a stud dog, and his genitalia seemed particularly protuberant. It made me uncomfortable, and my eyes were constantly drawn to it.
It didn't helped that whenever he barked, his bits quivered. And it especially didn't help that he appeared to never stop barking.
After a while, I did get used to this, and no longer felt like a perv for staring at the dog. But I never did get to like Terry. He was a nasty, nervous little thing who nipped at you, and who also let loose with every body fluid conceivable. He crapped everywhere. He peed everywhere. He humped everything. He was a repulsive little dog.
But in Dad's eyes, he could do no wrong.
I resented Terry. If a cat were to pee on the floor, it was summarily executed. But Terry regularly left turds and puddles everywhere, including on my bed, and experienced no extreme punishments. It was terribly unfair.
Terry was a spiteful and crafty dog. He had a chip on his shoulder, and perceived insults on a regular basis. We also had another dog, Buoy, who was much larger, and who would gleefully eat Terry's food. So I'd shut Terry in the upstairs with his dish so Buoy couldn't get at it.
Terry, however, believed I was locking him upstairs out of malice, so he couldn't get downstairs where all the fun surely must be taking place. And he rewarded me for this act of treachery by letting loose his bowels all over my bed.
He knew he was doing something wrong, too. Because when we came home, he'd launch himself out the door screaming and kiyi-ing with his stump of a tail jammed as far between his legs as he could get it. And what made it worse was that every time he was plagued with guilt, he'd spray piss and shit everywhere.
In fact, he'd jettison turds like torpedos. Sometimes they'd launch a full three feet from his anus before hitting the ground. It was both repulsive and impressive, all at the same time.
Terry had other talents, too.
He was a natural mimic. When we first got him, he had a sharp-sounding little bark, like a scaled-down Doberman's. But whenever he heard another dog bark, he'd practice that sound until he had it right. He yipped like a poodle after meeting one. He also bayed like a Bassett Hound. And, most interestingly, he barked like a seal after we spent some time near a harbour. We lived in the middle of coyote country, and he perfected the eerie ululation of the packs who roved the area.
He was also a consummate glutton. Perhaps it came from living in a kennel with so many other dogs. But when food was to be found anywhere in the vicinity, he'd eat it all, or die trying. One day, my Aunt Phyllis came to visit. She takes great pleasure out of feeding people and animals. She was making a big Newfie supper when Terry came begging. So she gave him scrap after scrap, expecting him to go away after a while.
I was attracted to the kitchen by the sound of the dog crying. Phyllis was feeding him like an automated system, with the most incredulous look on her face. "My land! He won't stop eating!"
The poor dog, normally wasp-waisted, was distended all over. His abdomen was full to exploding, and was much bigger around than any other part of him. "Stop, Phyllis! You're killing him!"
And so I saved him from death by exploding.
Terry was a coward and a bully. He would gleefully pick on or attack anything which offered no resistance. Since most things will offer resistance, confrontations would start as a vicious attack on Terry's part followed by him screaming, yiking, crapping everywhere, and choking himself on his collar while trying to back away at high speed.
He was petrified of snakes, but had a strange attraction to frogs. Maybe it's because they didn't fight back. While out canoeing one day, Dad picked up an enormous bullfrog with his paddle and brought it close so I could examine it. Terry took a wild lunge for the paddle, jaws snapping and mouth salivating in a Pavlovian fashion. The frog didn't even twitch to save itself. I tore it from betwixt Terry's snapping jaws and flung it spinning across the water like a frisbee.
raine_storm clutched Terry so he wouldn't go in after it.Terry, like Cocoa the pony, was very flatulent, probably because of the prodigious amounts of food he packed away. He liked to sleep in a cardboard box with his blanket completely covering him. While we sat on the couch, we'd sometimes be accosted by the sharp, sickly sweet smell of dog fart. His blanket would wriggle, his nose would emerge, and his nostrils would flare and contract in rapid succession. Then he'd burst from beneath the blanket, bark at us accusingly, and flee from the room.
He loved his blanket, probably because he was often cold due to his short fur. He hauled it around, and would bury himself in it when he laid down to rest or have a snack. He liked to chew on big, juicy bones up on the couch, where he'd be promptly evicted whenever we caught him. I wasn't fond of stretching out on the couch and coming in contact with a gnawed-on beef hip.
One day, I came in and saw the blanket moving on the couch. I could hear telltale gnawing sounds. "Terry!" I yelled, as I hauled the blanket off the couch. He stared at me with a guilty expression. But it wasn't a bone in his mouth. It was a big, frozen lump of horse turds.
Terry liked to watch tv. He liked to watch certain programs. His favourites were pornos. Through trial and error, he figured out how to change satellites with the remote control, and I remember coming home, when there were no humans present, to see the satellite dish changing position. When I went to the living room, Terry would be sitting on the couch watching a skin flick.
It was uncanny.
I suppose it had to do with his past career as a breeding stud. His hormones always had him kicked into high gear. Around this time, Dad loved to douse himself in Ralph Lauren's Polo cologne. I hated the smell. But Terry loved it. No, I mean he loved it. As in, it sent him into rapturous hump frenzies.
One day, Dad put on far more Polo than usual, and Terry was transported with lust. He began chugging away at Dad's leg. Dad shook the dog off, and he made his way over to each of us in turn. When we all kicked him off, he started humping the couch. We shooed him away, and he humped the vacuum cleaner until we sent him away. He tried romancing the homophobic Buoy, who snapped at him, and he finally settled on sodomizing Purrcy, the compliant tomcat.
Terry met with a bad end. One winter night, in my second year of university, we let the dog out to go to the bathroom. It was a cold night, so he never stayed out long. We ate our suppers and listened for him to bark to be let back in.
He didn't bark.
He'd been out for quite a while, and it was very cold, so we went looking. We called for him, but he didn't answer. So Dad and I walked outside to take a look.
We found him at the bottom of the yard, at the end of a trail of blood. He was being devoured by a beautiful coyote. We ran down toward them, and the coyote stood her ground, snarling and puffing up her ruff of yellow-grey fur. Dad got his rifle, took aim, and shot her in the heart.
We looked at Terry aghast. His hind legs had been eaten, and he was hitching himself toward us with his front paws. So Dad shot him, too.
From the looks of things, Terry'd come outside, been chased into our cellar, and attacked right inside our basement. The coyote had then dragged him back outside for her meal.
It was probably the only time Terry'd ever been quiet in his entire life.
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no subject
Date: 2006-02-28 10:23 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2006-02-28 10:59 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2006-03-01 12:30 am (UTC)From: (Anonymous)Was dog poo all over the cellar?
What the heck was your father's reasoning
behind killing cats but not dogs? Not that
I expect religious zealots to have sound
reasoning...
Gah
Date: 2006-03-01 12:31 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2006-03-01 01:50 pm (UTC)From:Dad killed the cats and not the dogs probably because he had a strong attachment to Terry. That was his favourite dog. So it was sheer favouritism, I guess.
no subject
Date: 2006-03-06 05:41 am (UTC)From:zombiena as a bedtime story! I'd have never
known you'd responded to my anonymous com-
ment!
no subject
Date: 2006-03-01 02:50 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2006-03-01 03:14 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2006-03-01 04:30 pm (UTC)From:that was just about the funniest thing i've read in a while.
the end, though, ugh. i figured a coyote would break its prey's neck before it started eating. the whole eating alive bit, though....yeucgch. made me feel a little guilty for wishing bad things on terry through the first 9/10ths of the story. not guilty enough, though.
no subject
Date: 2006-03-01 04:40 pm (UTC)From:An awful lot of predators can't be arsed to be humane before they start chowing down. Cats torment mice. Wolves gulp down buffalo while they're still alive, too. Disney's vision of nature just doesn't work out so realistically.
But yeah, Terry's story is mostly pretty funny.
I've got to get around to the tales of my other critters. And there are many. I grew up on farms and ranches.
no subject
Date: 2006-03-01 05:57 pm (UTC)From:it was your current icon.
no subject
Date: 2006-03-01 06:19 pm (UTC)From:The current icon photo was taken during a lightpainting session by
no subject
Date: 2006-03-01 09:48 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2006-03-01 10:03 pm (UTC)From:It's a wonder I didn't choose to sleep on the floor!