Wicket, The Puppy

I love dogs – I really do. When Ponzi finally gave me the go-ahead to start looking for a furry companion, I was overjoyed. We both kinda lost our “best friends” before meeting one another (Sprocket from my divorce, and Georgia Belle due to circumstances after her divorce). She saw a billboard with a frumpy-lookin’ bulldog on it, and that was enough to get her thinking about adopting a puppy again. We started doing our research, and narrowed it down to a “poo” mix. Little did we know that Wicket and Pixie were waiting for us to find them. Lotsa-shits-a-poos is a breed, didn’t you know? They were born on April 1st, 2004.

I intended on bringing home a single dog – a little puppy who would love us as much as we would love him (or her). I picked up Pixie, placed her in my arm, and watched her fall asleep while I stroked her puppy belly – a sign that she would have a wonderful temperament. I put her down and picked up Wicket, kicking and screaming and fussing and fiddling and whining and complaining and barking and whining and… there is no way I’m bringing this one home. As I started to walk away with Pixie in hand, Ponzi asked… “But what about him?”

No. No way in hell. “That one’s full of piss and vinegar,” I said. I knew he’d be nothing but trouble, nothing but frustration, nothing but aggravation. Ponzi stuck out her bottom lip. “He just needs to be loved up.” No, no he doesn’t – he was put on this Earth to make someone’s life a living hell. “But we can’t break them up; they’re brother and sister.” She started screwing with my brain’s logic lobe. “They can keep each other company.” And that’s when we decided to adopt Wicket.

All the way home, Wicket screamed his head off. He needed to go “potty” (that’s their word). Of course, I just thought he wanted to get our attention. I’ve never known a needier dog in my life, and I had a bad feeling that this one would try my patience at every given opportunity. I’ve never wanted to be more wrong in my entire life. Sadly, with time, I was proven right.

Let me give you Wicket’s new modus operandi:

1. Hear noise.
2. Bark at it.
3. If it comes closer, run away.
4. If it closes the distance to mere inches, pee.

I don’t get it. I just don’t get it. Pixie, on the other hand, doesn’t mind going up to strange creatures – which is weird, because of the two, she’s the more reserved! Pixie will roll over and let you be the master every single time. Wicket, on the other hand, thinks he’s in charge until given the opportunity (at which point he’ll turn, flee, and sometimes pee). ARGH! Wicket is trying to beat me at a battle of wits, but I’m never going to admit defeat. Unfortunately, neither is that dog.

So, another new game that Wicket’s decided to play: Bathroom Trash Treasure Hunt. At first, we weren’t sure if Pixie was playing, too – but she was exonerated after circumstantial “evidence” kept appearing around Wicket’s mouth. He would do this, we’d sometimes catch him, and he’d get punished appropriately. This happened, day after day; every time we’d let him out and on his own, he’d wander off into the downstairs bathroom and hunt for goodies in the trashcan. It got to the point where we couldn’t trust him to be out at all. And it’s not like we don’t pay attention to our pooches, either – we work at home, so everybody’s around each other all the time (and Wicket and Pixie often get to sit in our laps, like Pixie is doing right now – without denting my typing speed).

We were in a seemingly-endless cycle, and neither of us were getting through to Wicket. No matter what we did, he just wouldn’t leave the trash alone (and I refused to shut the bathroom door, because that would only serve to solve the problem temporariliy). Finally, Ponzi came up with the idea of sprinkling cayenne pepper around the liner. We knew we had “licked” the problem when we saw him wander into the living room, sniffling and licking his nose. Hasn’t been a problem since then.

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