Tuesday, April 21, 2009

The Curious Case of the Shell-Shocked Schnauzer

Turns out Monday was not the day Max would finally bitch slap the Gator Girl. Not that he didn't try and try again. And again. And again.

Things came to a head while we were watching Dancing With The Stars (Joe likes the skimpy costumes.). Mischa was lying on the floor, relaxing as much as she ever does when conscious, when Max (who had been hiding under the coffee table) decided this was it. This was his chance, his shot at overtaking the role of Alpha in this house, and so he went forth and confronted the Gator Girl.

Yeah. Wasn't his shot.

At first, things were fine. They were sniffing each other and playing with each other and on one was trying to dominate the other. Then Max started to get pushy and then a little pushier and then even a little more.

"You're gonna get your Schnauzer ass tagged," I warned him.

But he did not heed my words. Instead he continued to push his luck and then, right before Chuck and Julianne danced a Samba, Mischa reached her breaking point and pushed back.

Things got very loud, very quick.

Max dove for cover and I yelled for Mischa to stand down. She did. However, Max the Wonder Schnauzer with a death wish the size of my German Shepherd, decided to lunge at her.

Chaos, as you can imagine, ensued with Max shrieking like a little bitch.

No amount of yelling on my part was going to break up the brawl so I had to pull them apart. I pushed Max back against the couch and made Mischa lay down. When she had, I checked Max over to make sure the Gator Girl hadn't removed an eye or anything. She hadn't. She had managed to pull out a bit of his beard (but you don't even notice, so don't worry, Alison.) but other than that, there was nothing.

So, after that, I put Max on the couch next to me where he sat, staring off at the corner of our living room, probably counting the number of little cartoon birds and/or stars circling around his head.

"Is he all right?" Joe asked a couple of minutes later. "He's just kinda sitting there."

Which was a fair assessment. Max had yet to move from the spot in which I had placed him. He had yet to look in another direction. So I started to make noise, snapping my fingers, clapping my hands and calling his name. When I said his name, he looked at me with an expression like "Oh hey. When did you get here?"

"I think he has brain damage," I said to Joe.

"How can you tell?" Joe replied.

I put Max in my lap then, rolling him on his back and giving him a belly rub while I looked at his eyes. He didn't try to bite me. He didn't mouth me. He did nothing.

"Do you know what year it is, Max?" I asked. "Who's president?"

Joe snorted. Max looked at me like he was saying, "Max? Who's Max? I don't know, but he sounds delightful!"

Max spent the rest of the night in my lap, not moving much. I kept checking to make sure he was breathing. Joe said Max was likely just tired. Defeated, more like, I thought. Shell-shocked. And how.

This morning, Max (who really is fine, by the way.) woke up asking if we'd gotten the licence plate number of the truck that had hit him. I told him we sure did: G8TRGRL.

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