Dear Clipboard Guy

Dear Clipboard Guy:
First, let me say that the use of "dear" is merely a convention for a letter greeting, rather than an expression of affection. A colon may seem formal, but I'd like to remind you that you're not a friend or family member or even an acquaintance I think I might kind of like one day; the reason you don't get a friendly letter with a comma after the greeting is that you're a stranger.

Your status as a stranger might have been driven home to you when you walked up to my house. Did you hear my dog barking from the moment you stepped on the grass? Remember how her barking increased in both intensity and volume when you stood at the front door? How about when she jumped up on the armchair and barked at you through the window?

What I didn't have the time or inclination to tell you:
1. I've been regretting opening doors to clipboard-carrying strangers for thirty years, which experience assures me that there is nothing you can have to say that would interest me, partly because I have no interest in knowing someone who invades people's privacy for a living, but mostly because I know you wanted something from me that I didn't want to give you: money or a signature.

If I had opened the door, I know I would have been sorry. You might have been sorry, too; I would not have bought what you were selling; I would not have signed your petition. I never do. I don't want strangers appearing on my doorstep to sell me things or to proffer petitions, and therefore I never reward the unwanted behavior.

2. In order to open the door to you, I would have had to grab my dog's collar and drag her, toenails scraping on the wood floor, into another room, and lock her up. I did the cost/benefits analysis and decided not to bother. My dog is getting on in years. She has hip dysplasia and arthritis. Being yanked around the house would only aggravate the pain she is already in: you might or might not agree that's an excessive cost for the experience of declining whatever you're selling. It doesn't matter either way; I care a lot more about my dog's feelings than I do about yours.

3. When you knocked on the door, I was working. I don't show up at your work and bother you. I wish you would show me the same courtesy.

4. When a person asks you THREE TIMES--politely, in a neutral, civil tone and without brandishing a weapon--to vacate the premises, the sensible action is to shake the dust from your feet and hie thee hither, not to remain on the doorstep making facial expressions and gestures indicating your chagrin at being insulted. If we lived in Florida and if I owned a gun and if I had any whiff of a hint of a thought that I might be under threat, I guess I could have shot you. 

If you believe that we all of us who are not you have some obligation to do exactly what you would like us to do, e.g., open the door, buy your magazine subscription, do your laundry, put up with your nonsense, and so on, much disappointment awaits you. To be plain, just because you want me to do something doesn't in any way obligate me to do that thing. (Although I very much hope you will learn from this experience and stay away, so I can't imagine what else you might want from me.)

Best regards, (which you should interpret as a meaningless convention)
[signature here]

Like a Normal Dog

We finally took My Bad Dog to the dog park near our house. We've taken her to the other dog park, where she always gets along famously with her brethren. That dog park is like Dog Disneyland; there are so many dogs of every breed, size, and shape. There are mutts. There is a group of owners of Rhodesian ridgebacks that travel in a pack. There is a statuesque older lady whom I've only ever seen swathed in voluminous cloaks (yes, plural) who, walking slowly with the aid of a cane, presides over a pack of rescued dogs that includes a bulldog and a Chihuahua. Once she scolded me roundly for giving the bulldog a biscuit (I misunderstood her answer when I asked permission) because he was on a raw-food diet. If you're lucky, you might see Murphy, a black mastiff universally acknowledged as the alpha of all alphas, break up a fight.

But we (our collective household, minus My Bad Dog) had a bad memory of this dog park from when we had first brought My Bad Dog home from the rescue organization whence she came. We thought we'd take her to the park to tire her out. No sooner had we closed the chain-link gate behind us than a boisterous young poodle (a giant of a standard, not a toy) loped over and exuberantly mounted Sophie, who immediately registered her disapproval. About a thousand little flopsy and mopsy dogs scampered over to see what was happening, yipping all the while. In the mayhem, I shouted at the poodle's owner to get her dog (undeterred by Sophie's protest, the poodle was still leaping and pawing at her). The owner chided me ("He's just a puppy!") before dragging the poodle away.

In retrospect, I see my mistakes (plural). Still, we'd never gone back.

This morning was beautiful, with golden light streaming across the green grass. Behind the fence, the ground was covered with orange leaves. There were only two owners and two dogs: a funny-looking grayish terrier mix belonging to a pleasant guy about my age and a gorgeous fawn and white pitbull belonging to an older woman whose manner might be described as completely neutral. The terrier was friendly, the pitbull shy. We threw a tennis ball for the dogs, and except for a brief raise of the hackles at the pitbull ("It's all right," the pleasant guy said, "they're fine"), all was harmony. On the way home, we encountered an elderly basset hound named Cecil. Cecil growled at My Bad Dog, who reacted, as she always does when small dogs growl at her, with a calm wag, which reassured Cecil, whose owner complimented us on our good, sweet dog.

Which she was, until we saw a mail carrier drive by, and she became the hound of hell, the dog people are so afraid of. In fact, so many people seem so afraid of her, even those who have never seen the hound of hell display, that whenever anybody--the pleasant guy at the dog park, Cecil's smiling owner--treats My Bad Dog like a normal dog, I feel overwhelmed with gratitude.

What's going on with the mind-regulating training? It's dogged as does it, I keep telling myself. As anyone who's ever raised a child or trained a dog knows, the effort is probably 90% training myself in order to act in such a way that encourages the desired behavior and discourages what is unwanted.

I got myself to understand that it's not possible (nor do I want to) train her out of barking completely. She is a dog; it's in her nature to bark, joyfully, playfully, in welcome or in warning. What I want to do is eliminate the crazy so that her barking might be constructive, rather than compulsive.