We have this dog. His name is Gorm.
The name fits, although he looks gormless, not like he's full of gorm. He gorms his food. He's all gormy. He's G-Dog, Gorman, the Slug.
And sometimes, he's That F u c k i n g Dog.
We got Gorm from the no-kill shelter. He'd been a stray, rambling about for who knows how long, likely after growing into his ears and paws. He was probably the cutest puppy in the world -- a shepherd/Dobie mix with a hint of Great Dane, all ears and paws and nose. Then he gained 90 pounds, and was probably dumped in the country.
Gorm's got some silver in his muzzle now, and he doesn't run as much as he used to, although once he outran a greyhound on the straightaway. He barks little, is gentle with the kids, and is generally a Good Dog.
Except when he's That F u c k i n g Dog.
(I'm using spaces in That Word to confound icky google searches, and because when I say it out loud, that's how I pronounce it -- lots of stress, drawn out.)
We're still living with my in-laws, in a town. Gorm no longer has the run of 10 acres of farmland or a stoop to snooze on without a leash. We've been walking him, but you can tell it's not the same.
The other day, he got out. He was in the garage and the door opened. His ears went up, his tail went up, and he was gone.
I should say here that Matt and I are bad dog owners. Gorm knew sit and a little bit of stay and come, and didn't bark, and was housebroken, and that was good enough for us when we got him. We played a lot but didn't train him very well. The first kennel he ever stayed at was run by this Ukrainian couple that had trained dogs for the Red Army. After we picked him up and saw how he'd tried to chew out of the dog dryer (and were told how he'd pooped in his kennel), the woman pronounced, "Your dog LUFFS you, but he doesn't RESPECT you."
So we have this dog that was like a bad boyfriend, and yes, most of it is our fault. A tiny part of it, though, is that sometimes I think he really liked being a stray.
He ran around the neighborhood for an hour at a really bad time. My folks and my sister and her family were in town, and I was supposed to have the kids at a playground to meet everybody for lunch. I chased Gorm up and down the alleys and streets, knowing that when he was darn good and ready to come back, he would.
I mentioned a few weeks ago that Gorm had swallowed some mouse poison. We had to give him nine pills a day for three weeks, so we got a routine where we'd shake the pill bottle and give him the pills in peanut butter. For some time he's associated a shaking pill bottle with a treat.
I also mentioned a few weeks ago my annoying ailment. TMI alert: I was having a non-ovulatory period, which resulted in scary extended bleeding and general run-down malaise. I got a prescription for progesterone and solved that little problem.
So anyway, I got my bottle of progesterone and drove around the neighborhood shaking it, hoping that somehow the sound of female hormones would lure Gorm home. Or something.
Nothing doing, of course. So I kept driving around, watching my car overheat, and then the top flew off my bottle of progesterone and the pills went flying all over the street.
Those pills made a huge difference when my uterus went haywire. So I stopped the car and went out into the street, picking pills up and putting them in the bottle again, waving at the cars going by and feeling like the most desperate housewife picking up her mother's little helper.
That's when I started blaming it all on Gorm -- That F u c k i n g Dog.