Bite me

I have failed as a mother.

Evidently, our fur-baby tried to bite Sprinkler Guy John last spring during his annual startup visit.

This was news to us when we called last week to set up our winterizing appointment with the irrigation company. The owner’s wife answered and made some small talk, saving the best for last.

“Oh, and, um, you’ll have to lock up your dog when Sprinkler Guy John’s there because a note in your file says she nipped at his baby-blue cotton elasticized surgical shoe covers back in April. Sorry.”

What? A note in our file? Nipped at his what? Sorry?

Suddenly, I’m transported back to Goodale Elementary School on Detroit’s east side where a shy, rule-following sixth-grader (me) was blamed for throwing a rock at another kid (my younger bratty cousin) on the playground. The lying little snot told the principal it was me.

She’s dead now. The principal. Don’t know what happened to the cousin.

“You can’t be serious!” I had pleaded in my staunchest pre-teen defense. “I can’t even throw.”

We’ll save that story for another time.

Back to the sprinkler saga. Seriously, I wanted to tell Sprinkler Lady, that cannot possibly be Madison. Our dog doesn’t bite.

Reminds me of a scene from “The Pink Panther Strikes Again” when Inspector Clouseau, played by Peter Sellers, asks the hotel clerk if his dog bites. He assures him it doesn’t.

The inspector bends down to pet the dog, which bites him.

Clouseau says, “I thought you said your dog did not bite!”

“That is not my dog,” the clerk says.

Not. My. Dog. That’s all I had to say. Instead, I mumbled some non-denial denial – “I don’t recall that happening” – sounding like one of Nixon’s Watergate burglars.

“Hmmm,” she said. “Our guys get bitten all the time, mostly by pit bulls and larger breeds. Since it’s noted here, it must have happened.”

What? Pit bulls? Notes? Hardly definitive proof. I half-expected her to parrot Special Counsel Robert Mueller’s testimony: “I will refer you to the report.”

Honestly, Maddie would never bite anyone. Nope, not possible. She’s a sweet Havanese and barely 12 pounds when soaking wet, with a wonderful disposition. That pooch would rather lick you to death than bite. Not even while under extreme duress clenching her favorite yellow chicken toy in a vice grip with what’s left of her 11-year-old choppers.

Like any mother worth her salt, I imagine, I went directly to the source. It went something like this:

“So, Madison,” I said, as she lay on the kitchen floor next to her food bowl under a framed watercolor of a mopey dog and the words, “The service here is sooo slow.” “We need to talk.”

Yes, mother. What is it? (To be clear, Maddie always speaks in italics.)

She seemed attentive enough, although I suspect she had one eye on the patio door looking for any hint of a squirrel.

“Is it true that you bit Sprinkler Guy John last spring?” I asked.

Her head tilted up and to the right following the words “Sprinkler Guy John,” her same reaction to hearing “W-A-L-K” or “C-A-R.” What can I say? Obedience school graduate with honors. Twice.

“Did you bite him?” I repeated.

Well, no, mother. That’s not possible. I would never bite.

“But there’s a note in our file that you nipped him. How do you explain that?”

Maddie yawned, rolled over flat on her back and did that thing dogs do when they’re completely relaxed and don’t give a crap about anything. Then, she confessed.

Oh, you mean last spring when Sprinkler Guy John came back upstairs from turning on the water in the basement, walked through the kitchen and stepped on my Greenie?

“He stepped on your Greenie?”

Yeah. Nobody steps on my Greenie.

Who knew our usually passive little beast would be compelled to nip at Sprinkler Guy John’s baby-blue cotton elasticized surgical shoe covers? With parenting, though, I suppose there are no guarantees, so you do what you can and hope for the best. Could have been worse.

Oh, and one more thing, Mother.

Yes, Maddie, what is it?

He tasted like chicken.

Now that’s a dog only a mother could love.