HARLEY THE WONDER DOG

Thousands of you have asked about the FLB* that often accompanies my darling, precious Harley's name.  Although I had about 10 other topics to discuss today, including a followup to the heebie-jeebies disorder and its manifestations in the presence of Florida's wildlife,  I decided I could not ignore the clamor from  my fans.

Please remember that the number of my followers and number of visitors displayed on my blog are grossly under-reported.  I have to keep a low profile.

Harley will be 6 years old in January.  He is a "mixed terrier".  A Heinz 57.  As someone on the street once called him:  a Disney dog.  Yes, he is incredibly cute.  Now.

When I first saw Harley at the St. Augustine Humane Society in January 2005, my comment was, "He's kind of fugly, isn't he?"  "Noooo," my sister Sheila argued.  "He's very cute!  Look at his cute face."  It had been Sheila's idea to visit the Humane Society that day.  She wanted to adopt a puppy for her family and she knew I wanted a dog, too.  "Now, you know, Karen," she had said in as kind a way as she could manage, " in 10 years you'll be in your 60's and you won't be able to pick up a large dog."  Family.  You can't live without them and laws prevent you from slicing them into chum and tossing them into the open waters of the Atlantic Ocean.

The puppy that she was taking home was a darling Golden-shephard mix and about 6 months old.  He was galumphing around his cage and I wanted to trade.  The mixed terrier was wiry and had hair sticking out around his neck like an Elizabethan collar.  "I don't know," I wavered.  The card on the terrier's cage read," Name: HARLEY  Age: 1 YEAR  Gender:  MALE   Housetrained:  YES  Likes:  CHILDREN AND OTHER DOGS  Dislikes:  CATS.  Story:  CHILD DEVELOPED ALLERGY TO DOG."  I didn't have a cat and I had heard that terriers didn't shed much.  My only other options were to go home empty-handed or take home a pit-bull-mixed something and wait for the inevitable mauling.  "Just take him out and walk him around," Sheila urged.  I approached a volunteer and she handed me a leash.

When I opened the gate Harley jumped up and down like he had springs in his back legs!  I leashed him up and took him outside.   I was pleased to see that he immediately relieved himself.  So he knew to do his business outside.  In fact, he relieved himself several times, lifting his leg here, lifting his leg there, etc.  He didn't seem interested in me, but that could have been the excitement of being outside.  I squatted down and rubbed my hand down his back.  He WAS wiry, but kind of soft, too.  His ears  were so cute and how about those big brown eyes...I was hooked. 

The next week I brought Harley home.  I let him sniff around and get used to my condo.  I'd only been living there 10 months and everything was still very fresh and new to me.  Even though the carpet was several years old the former owners had kept it in good condition, and I did worry that Harley might have some accidents on it.  I took him out frequently over the next several hours.

The next morning I blocked him in the kitchen/laundry rooms with a baby gate.  He had fresh water and chew toys and a floor to tinkle if he had an accident.  I had house-trained other dogs by blocking them in a kitchen and it had worked well.  I gave him a treat and left.

I hurried home after work to see my new buddy.  I unlocked my back door, opened it, and gasped.  My laundry room and kitchen floors were covered in garbage.  As I picked my way through the trash I was horrified to see a chewed-up library book on the floor.  That book had been on the clothes dryer!  My new Liz Claiborne jacket was crumpled  in with the garbage on the floor, too!  I looked at the wall where my coat had been hanging.  The hook and the 30-lb screw anchor attached to it had been pulled out of the wall and there was a HOLE IN MY WALL.  SOMEONE pulled and tugged and SWUNG on my jacket until he pulled the hook right out of the wall.  In addition, my new jacket was torn.  I wanted a gun.  "HARLEY!" I roared.

The baby gate was knocked askew.  Harley was nowhere to be found.  Finally, I spotted the little beast in my guest bedroom with an empty can of ravioli next to him.  He looked pleased to see me; he wagged his tail.  I was afraid I would kill him if I touched him, so I said very calmly, "Come on, you f***ing little bastard.  Let's go for a walk."  He jumped up and ran past me to the back door.  As I leaned down to clip on his leash he lifted his leg and peed on my dryer.

That night Harley and I drove to Wal-Mart to purchase a dog crate.  I didn't dare leave him alone in my condo.  Already this "free pound puppy" was draining my wallet:  neutering, adoption fee, replacing the library book, one very nice jacket, and now a crate.  I left him in the car while I made the purchase.  Maybe someone would steal him.  No such luck, though, he was waiting when I returned.

The next morning I placed him in his crate with a dish of water and a chew toy.  We had played in and out of the crate the previous evening, so I hoped he would be okay with it while I was at work.  I gave him a treat and left.  I hurried home after work to see my new best friend and let him out of the crate.  When I walked into the living room I at first didn't understand what I was seeing.  The crate was filled with what looked like white yarn!  White yarn and a terrier!  Huh?  Then I saw the hole in my carpet and the CONCRETE FLOOR UNDERNEATH.  Harley managed to somehow push the plastic tray on the bottom of the crate through the opening of the crate - you can slide out the tray without opening the crate door - I guess if you have a pitbull-mix-scary-dog that's what you would do.  Harley managed to push the tray out - I don't know how he "unhooked it" and then he dug a hole in my carpet.

I left him in the crate for fear I would kill him.  I had owned this dog less than a week and he was destroying my home and driving me crazy!  I considered taking him back to the Humane Society.  People did it all the time.   I paced back and forth refusing to look at him.  I refused to look at him because he was sitting and wagging his tail and just looking so happy to see me.  I sighed, stalked back to the laundry room, grabbed his leash, stalked back to the crate, opened the door and leashed him before he could run to the back door by himself.  I muttered, "You f***ing little bastard, I can't believe you dug a hole in my carpet, you f***ing little bastard."

I signed us both up for dog training the next day.  Over the next three weeks I considered taking him back time and time again.  The last time was the day he picked a fight with a chow-mix at dog training class WHILE THE INSTRUCTOR WAS HOLDING HIS LEASH.  I was in tears by the end of class like the mother of a juvenile delinquent who knows the kid has to go to jail.  For some reason I made a commitment in my heart that day to keep him no matter what.  Smooth sailing since then?  NO WAY NO HOW.  I do love the FLB and he never ceases to surprise me.  Each surprise usually costs me money or time but now I usually get a laugh or at least a good story out of it.

Just ask me about his accident 3 months later....another time.