Short Stories by Phoenix Hocking

DOROTHY, THE GOAT-DOG

BY

PHOENIX MARY GRACE HOCKING




Blueberries stained her muzzle, and three cherries were between her paws; another six or so had rolled under the table. I spotted a beet in the middle of the living room floor; God knows where the rest were.
In the time it took for me to put the sack of fruits and vegetables on a kitchen chair and go out to the car for more, Dorothy, my little goat-dog, had struck with gleeful abandon, scattering berries, cherries, beets, carrots and rutabaga in all directions. Only the potatoes were spared, wedged in the bottom of the sack.
She’s not really part goat, of course. Dorothy is a Beagle/Jack Russell mix, heavy on the Jack. If you look up the word “mischievous” in Webster’s, you will find a picture of Dorothy there.
God brought Dorothy to us. Or, more precisely, we were in God’s house when Pam, another member of our Christian community, brought the six-week old imp, along with her siblings, to church. I had recently had to put my old Sweetie dog to sleep and was not in the market for a new dog. It was just perfect having only two dogs again and didn’t really want another. Or so I thought.
But when it comes to matters of the heart, just imagine a shrugging of the shoulders and a deep sigh, because one look and you’re a goner. Feisty? Lord, yes! The little brat was busy trying to chew the ear off one of her siblings, little puppy growls and tail wagging all at the same time.
She was beautiful. White, with black dots all over, including one placed perfecting on the top of her head, and just the right smattering of brown around her eyes, Dorothy looked at me with those sad Beagle eyes and I was hooked.
“No,” I said. “No, no, no. Don’t want another dog. Don’t need another dog. Certainly don’t want a puppy.” And all the while I have the little heart-thief in my arms and she’s licking my face and trying to crawl into my hair and biting my glasses and my earrings. I might as well have been speaking Chinese.
I took her inside, where my husband Chip was chatting with a few men at the lunch table. I was a little far away, but I could swear I saw him roll his eyes when he spotted me.
“Chip, meet Dorothy,” I said, “Dorothy, meet Chip.”
“Well,” he said, “just be sure the other dogs will accept her.”
In about two seconds flat Pam and I were headed over to the house. We came in the gate and put Dorothy down so the others could get to know her. They sniffed her all over and wagged tails.
No problem!
Of course, I don’t think they realized she was actually going to STAY. They might have had second thoughts!
She is one smart dog, though, I’ll give her that. She had the doggie door figured out the very first night, and potty training didn’t take but a few weeks. Once she figured out what “POTTY OUTSIDE!!!” meant, she hasn’t had but a couple of mistakes inside since, usually when she was stressed or the weather was bad.
It didn’t take long to figure out that she thinks she’s part goat, however. This dog will eat EVERYTHING, or at least try to. This includes shoes, slippers, paper, plastic flower pots, almost all things edible (except apples; for some reason they seem to be safe from her), leaves, twigs, bark, and bugs. Especially those huge beetles that fly around the porch light at night. She will chase them down and devour them with a mighty crunch like she’s eating potato chips.
The thing is, even with blueberries on her chin and cherries between her paws, there is just something about the girl that makes one want to pick her up and love on her. I think it’s because even when she is guilty as sin, she looks so sweet and innocent.
Of course, training is training, and unless one wants the dog to run the house, Dorothy needs to learn that such behavior is not acceptable. So, a verbal reprimand consisting of a strong “Dorothy, NO!” sent her under the table, those sad Beagle eyes looking at me reproachfully and with complete and total innocence.
Sighing mightily, I stoop to pick up the blueberries, the cherries, and all the other debris from the kitchen floor. I step on a cherry and reach for a rutabaga. “Dorothy, Dorothy, Dorothy,” I mutter, “what AM I going to do with you?”
She watches me with grave concern, her head on her stained chin, eyes up, ears flopping on the ground. “Who, me?” she seems to say. “What did I do?”
Later that afternoon I sit at the computer, poking around on eBay. Ah. Now, what’s this?
“Training your Jack Russell Terrier.”
Now, there’s a book I can use. I put in a bid, and feed Dorothy a bite of Chex cereal. She crunches happily, then flops down on her blankie, rolls over on her back, and promptly goes to sleep.
Dorothy, my little goat-dog.