Ode to Boomer a.k.a. Three Reasons Why I Think My Dog is Trying to Kill Me

Those of you who have been here for a little while know that our newest member of the family is a now 140-pound lump of love named Boomer.  Boomer has had a turbulent adjustment to our household, but he tries super hard and my husband and son adore him (99.9% of the time). My relationship with Booms has been, well, strained.

I’ve always suspected that he’s had it in for me, and I am documenting this here so that when the time comes, my family and friends will have the full story.

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Boomer, envisioning my horrific death.

I give you exhibit A: The Concussion.

Early December, 2011.  Boomer was four months old. There had been a snowstorm, and we hadn’t lived here long enough to fully appreciate the fact that we really should have bought a snowblower right off the bat.

You get where I’m going with this.

Enter a 50 pound, 4-month-old puppy, learning how to walk on a leash.  Add me, and a sheet of ice, and it’s nothing short of disastrous.

All I remember, really, is thinking “I think I’ll go get the mail.”  Booms was romping around, tugging this way and that, desperately in need of exercise. Next thing I know, I was suspended in mid-air, horizontal, looking at the blue sky.  It’s strange how the mind works in these kinds of situations. I do recall a fleeting zen moment, very calm and objective, in which I said to myself, “Hmm. So this is how I die.”

I’m not sure how much time passed between then and when Boomer sat on my chest and licked my face until I opened my eyes.

You might think, “dummy, he’s not trying to kill you.  He totally saved you from a coma or something.” To this, I say: Just wait.

Exhibit B: The Snore/Clang.

Back before I had a child, once I was asleep, I could sleep through all kinds of ruckus. Once the baby entered the picture, I was just like every other new mom I’d ever met, which is to say I was irrationally afraid that a spider would crawl into my child’s nose and suffocate him while he slept. You can’t hear spiders over a baby monitor, though, so I listened to every crackle of static like I was that communications monitor guy in the Hunt for Red October.  Unfortunately, that fear of missing the midnight “Mommy” cry seems to have been a permanent installation to my nervous system.

So now, and my husband will vouch for this, I am completely intolerant of any noise after 8:30 p.m.  Like, go across the street and yell at the neighbor kids at 9:30 because they’re keeping me awake intolerant. It’s an embarrassing part of who I am, but I own it.

What does this have to do with my dog?  I’m getting there.

Look at this deceptively sweet face.

Boomer at 8 weeks old.
Look at this deceptively sweet face.

Booms sleeps in a gigantic 5-foot-tall gimp cage crate in our bedroom. He has a big fluffy bed inside the crate, and when he goes to bed at night, he nestles in to his bed like a big bear in a cave. Once he’s asleep, he rolls over onto his back, belly up, legs splayed out everywhere. It’s one of his most charming qualities, actually, the way he looks when he’s asleep.  Just the way he looks, though.

The dog snores like an 80-year-old overweight lumberjack on Ambien. It’s a throaty, phlegmmy, resounding, long, battle-cry of a snore.  My husband says it’s the sound of a happy puppy who has found a home. I screamed into my pillow a little bit when he did that.

Once he’s been asleep for a little while, the rolling and clanging start. I tell myself it will be better once he’s out of his crate at night (which will happen once he stops eating socks).

Exhibit C: The Shiv(s)

After an ill-fated experience with a mammoth-sized femur bone that resulted in emergency surgery, Boom’s toy box is restricted to Nylabone products. (seriously, if you value your pet’s life at all, do NOT give them real bones to chew. the shards can puncture their lungs, stomach lining, and intestines. you’d think a dog his size wouldn’t have a problem with real bones. but he does. they do. don’t buy them. that is all.)

I think the surgery and the whole bone-shard-stuck-in-his-gut thing made him bitter.  I don’t blame him for that at all. But I wasn’t expecting him to plot his revenge, at least not quite so (pardon the pun) pointedly. Every remaining chew toy has been painstakingly crafted into a weapon.  If he had thumbs –

or if he someday manages to acquire thumbs – I am certain that he will plunge these things into the back of our thighs and give them a twist.

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IMG_20130312_190302 I found these hidden in between the couch cushions.

 

 

When that fateful day comes, please use this post as evidence in any resulting trial.

 

 

 

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