Sweet and Sour Halfbreeds

My friends and family joke often that Bastas and I have an emotionally abusive relationship. To quote my best friend, "If you had a boyfriend that treats you the way Bast does, I would be staging an intervention." This morning was a good example of the sort of emotional blackmail of living with Bast.

Every morning, I like to wake up a few minutes early so I can fire up the Keurig, have a cup of overpriced coffee, and read the latest news. Bast accepts this part of my routine with impatience, since he wants a chance to go outside and frustrate me by not paying attention when I call him. This morning, he was unusually insistent that I take him out, but I foolishly ignored him and told him to let me enjoy my coffee.

I did enjoy my coffee. I did not enjoy the turd he dropped in the other room while I wasn't paying attention.

Okay, well, my bad. He told me he needed to go out, I ignored him, so this one was on me. I went to clean up his leavings and caught him staring at me from the corner of my eye. I turned, irritated, and asked, "What, Bast?" He scooted forward and placed something on the floor beside me. I picked it up, curious, and saw that it was a glove. Bastas loves gloves, so I wasn't too shocked to see him with one, but upon further inspection, I realized this was THE glove - his most coveted glove that he stole from me last autumn and has been hoarding ever since. I've been making do with one frozen hand shoved in my pocket to escape the cold since he bogarted the mate and stashed it somewhere so hidden, I had yet to find it.

I frowned at the glove, the looked at Bast. He swayed his tail in a slow arc with his ears down, as if to say, "Here's that thing you wanted. Sorry I shit in your bedroom." I smiled, ruffled his fur, and we suited up to go outside.

However, since the cosmic scale had apparently been balanced by his unusually kind gesture, all bets were off and he streaked around like a maniac, refusing to listen to me or come when I called in the park. I was able to distract and calm him for a while as we're relearning how to "stay". While in the course of opening the bag of rewards, however, I dropped THE glove. Bast darted in, a giant black mamba, snatched the glove and tore off like his ass was on fire.

Now, I am stupid in some areas, but I learned quickly with Bast not to chase him unless we're playing - he is much faster than I could ever be, and chase is one of his favorite games. Chasing him just results in me panting along behind him, furious and impotent while he darts around with wicked glee. So, I dropped back from him and watched him streak off with my glove, pacing with care with his eyes on the ground. I knew what was coming - it's what happens to every single glove he finds:

He was going to bury it.

And he did.

And I just watched as my newly discovered glove disappeared under a mound of fresh earth.

After he was done, I approached the mound of dirt, scraped around with my boot a bit until I found it, and shook it out. It was, of course, filthy - caked in dog slobber with a good bit of dirt now ground into its fabric. Bast stood a few feet away, watching with a sullen sulk as I raided his horde. I shook the filthy glove at him and shrieked in triumph, "I GOT A GLOVE OF DIIIIIRRRTTTTT!"

Although I can't wear the glove still, I count this morning as a draw.

There is no Bast. There is only Zuul.

In the time of my life BB (Before Bastas), I had a much more cavalier attitude about leaving my things out unattended while I was away from the house. After all, it was not exactly if my chinchillas were going to spring out of their cage and eat my shoes, and my fat old shepherd mix could not care less about chewing on anything besides her own food.

Bast, however, is more than happy to get into just about anything and everything in my house and has ruined the carefree "Leave my shoes by the door because they're fine" environment. BB, I had no reason to count the potatoes in the pantry - if I left the house with 6 potatoes, odds were there would still be 6 potatoes sitting there when I returned, barring supernatural interference. Now I walk in the kitchen, notice there are 2 spuds missing, and start wondering at what point in my day am I going to find a surprise starch squirreled away somewhere in my things. Bast rarely destroys what he finds - he just takes it and puts it elsewhere for shits and giggles.

The exception to Bast's non-violent pilfering is leather products. Anything made of dead cows is on the menu, I have learned to my sorrow. Belts, shoes, jackets, boots, bound books - Bast is an Equal Opportunity Destroyer. Although it only takes a few beloved possessions shredded to learn your lesson about not leaving things out in the open, tricking Bast is a little more complicated than simply putting your things away (which as an adult, I should be doing anyway, but, you know...)

At first, putting my leather goods away in the closet sufficiently protected them, but the infuriatingly clever Bast was not stalled by the closet doors more than a couple days - his versatile, monkey-like front paws are more than dexterous enough to pry open the sliding doors to reach the forbidden fruits of my belongings. When my most beloved leather jacket fell prey to the Big Bad Wolf, I started lobbing everything onto the highest shelves of my closet. Putting things up higher than even I can reach them for the most part resolved the issue of shredding, but it doesn't stop Bast from sliding open the closet doors and making a huge god damn mess of everything in his quest for the leathery Holy Grail.

I needed something to keep him out of the closet period, but my options were limited. A lock wouldn't work (no place to put it), and neither would spraying a bitterant - Bast loves the bitter apple sprays sold at most pet stores as deterrents. Of course he does. The little freak.

As in most areas of dealing with Bast, outwitting him to protect my things became an issue of psychological warfare. If physical deterrents wouldn't keep him out, it was time to go deeper and tap into the the most basic fear of every dog, befriend the most hated of enemies, make a deal with the foulest of Devils.

I parked the vacuum cleaner in front of the closet door.

Like most dogs, Bast has an instinctive hatred of the vacuum, that deceptively passive appliance that spends most of its time silent and roars to life a few times a week. Because Bast is a naturally skittish creature who needs to be frightened only once by something to develop a life-time complex because of it, he has never really gotten okay with the vacuum. Occasionally, he will stand his ground against this buzzing nemesis by actually staying in the same room, but that bravado lasts until it swoops anywhere close to his direction - one hint it's coming toward him and he becomes a pitch black streak retreating to another room.

I have two closets, and fortunately, two gate keepers to stand sentinel over them - my beloved Dyson Pet Vacuum and the lumbering Hoover Carpet Shampooer, which makes up for its lack of speed and agility by being even noisier and more obnoxious than the vacuum. Each one guards a closet, and completely stymied my leather-raiding dog.

If having strategically placed vacuums isn't weird enough, you have to also remember that I am absolutely incapable of acting in a socially-acceptable manner about the smallest things. Pleased with my ingenuity at enlisting the help of my appliances to act as gargoyles against Bast, I greet each vacuum by shrieking, "I AM THE GATEKEEPER!," every time I pass by.

Hoover and Dyson have yet to tell me if they are the key masters, though, so the portal remains locked thus far.

Everyday Goblins

This morning I got that, "I'm being watched" feeling while leaned over the sink brushing my teeth. Having seen too many horror movies, I halfway expected to look up into the mirror and see a demon/serial killer/alien/predator/poltergeist hunched over my shoulder, but it was just Bast standing in the doorway, watching me with ears folded back and amber-orange eyes the size of full moons. I pushed my toothbrush to the side and asked, "What, Bast?" Despite tooth-brushing be a common occurrence around here, the sight of me frothing at the lips and my distorted voice was enough to trigger Bast's terrified flight response - he peeled out with such force that his claws dug furrows into the carpet in his haste to escape the minty fresh demon attacking my mouth.

One of the more unfortunate misconceptions about Bast's kind is that they make great guard dogs. Some people think that mixing dogs with wolves will give you this super-territorial animal that aggressively defends its turf from invaders - I think if you asked these people where they got this information, you'd find that the most interaction they've had with an animal with actual wolf content is when their Grandma read them Little Red Riding Hood as a child.

In reality, dogs like Bast have a tendency to be timid and shy. The joke is that they make great watch dogs - they will hide and watch as someone strange invades their home, and watch them leave with all of their owner's belongings. This is certainly true of Bast, who I think would rather chuck himself out the window than help me combat any would-be attacker.

To help with this innate shyness, good breeders socialize their puppies extensively. They introduce them to a variety of situations to help familiarize them with the sometimes overwhelming human world and prepare them for venturing off to their new homes. Although Bast was socialized very well by the rescue who scooped him up, he still occasionally wigs out when he encounters something new (or, as in the case this morning, with something not-new that is nevertheless not-okay no matter how routine it is).

I never know what's going to spook him. Sometimes, I can anticipate something being scary, prepare for it, and then get no reaction from him whatsoever. Other times, normal activities accidentally terrify him, and I have to go find him in his hiding spot to soothe and coax him out. He can also react either way to the same thing in different situations. For example, when we go walking in a nearby park, he usually likes to stop and watch people playing tennis. We can loaf for half an hour at time while he watches the tennis balls sail back and forth. Another time, we were walking close by and he saw a girl just carrying a tennis racket. Distracted by a conversation, I was totally unprepared for the intensity of his panic; his terrified bolt somehow bruised the back of my thigh from him crashing into me while also yanking my arm almost out of socket from the front.

Tennis racket slicing through the air? Ooo neat. Tennis racket being idly carried? FLY, YOU FOOLS.

Once, he freaked out while I was changing my bed linens. I wasn't shaking the sheets toward him, but as soon as the fitted sheet came off, his ears laid back and he bolted from the bedroom. He then stood in the doorway as far back as he could while still keeping one eye around the corner and watched me until the scary linens fit securely on the bed where they belong. Once everything looked normal again, he bounded back into the room, popped up on the bed, and went straight to sleep on the no-longer-horrifying sheets.

I don't know what goes on in that narrow little head of his. All I can do is keep a firm grip on the leash and hold tight.

The Odd Couple

For those that don't know, I actually have two dogs. Bastas, of course, and a shepherd/elkhound mix named Grendel. I've had Grendel for going on 8 years now - she was a birthday present from my friends when I was in high school and has been a constant feature in my life ever since. If you're wondering why I don't have a blog for her, it's because Grendel is, bless her heart, a colossal grouch and every single blog entry would be reiterations of "What is Grendel pissed off at today?"

Her grouchiness posed a serious problem when trying to introduce Bast into my family. Bast, although subdued and skittish, was still only a 9 month old puppy when I got him, full of playfulness and joie de vivre. Grendel, on the other hand, does not do "play". She does not like fetch or tug of war. She doesn't like chase or tag or any of that nonsense. Grendel is extremely territorial - one of those dogs that has to stop and pee on every other blade of grass when we're out walking. She carefully sniffs other dogs' leavings before adding her own on top of it: in doggy language, a clear "fuck you" to any other dogs in the neighborhood. When we're approaching the end of our walks and she's all out of pee, she just squats or hikes over whatever spot she's claiming and pretends to pee on it.

When you think of Grendel, think of those squadrons of elderly ladies who go power-walking at the mall. You know the ones I'm talking about. They move in platoons of 3 or 4, elbows swinging at precise angles, sensible, thick-soled sneakers that match their zip-up track suits striking the ground with deliberate vigor. They scoot about at a swift 5 miles-an-hour, weaving through the shopping crowd with a stiff-legged gait that could be most accurately labeled as "goose-stepping". Getting in their way earns you a disdainful huff at best, at worst a passive-aggressive smack on the hip from one of their 40 pound handbags.

You get the idea. That's Grendel on walks - tail curled over her back, straining into her harness with a barely contained eagerness to reinforce her dominion over the neighborhood via urine stains.

Seriously.

For Grendel, life is about one thing and one thing only: defending her empire of peed-upon territories. Her manifesto would sound a lot like the text from "Green Eggs and Ham":

Would you like to chase this ball?
Would you like to play at all?

I would not like to chase that ball.

I do not want to play at all.

I do not want to meet new friends;

I've an empire to defend.

I do not like to joke and sing.

I only like to piss on things.

So, introducing an exuberant puppy did not go over well. Bastas harassed Grendel tirelessly, and at 8 years old and used to being an only-dog, Grendel was not inclined to be gracious to our new manically happy pack member. So ungracious, in fact, that I couldn't keep them in the room together without fear of one or the other being injured.

My best friend Cait provided an elegant solution; moving into a new neighborhood, Cait needed an alert but sedate companion to keep an eye on her place but not destroy things when left unattended. Since Grendel spends most of her time lazing, in between bouts of snarling viciously at UPS guys, this seemed like a great temporary arrangement while we got Bast healthy and he settled down a bit.

Grendel moved in with Cait and got a new territory to defend, and we bring Bast over for carefully supervised socialization visits to teach him some manners. Everyone is much happier with this arrangement, and it seems to be working so far: Bast is learning to play more gently with Grendel, and Grendel tolerates him to an extent that I don't have to worry as much about her ripping him a new bunghole.

For this week, though, Cait is out of town, giving me both dogs in my place. In theory, this is not a huge problem - I already walk Bast 3 or 4 times a day, and Grendel's part slug and spends most of her day sleeping anyway. Should be fine for a week, right?

The devil's in the details, of course. Bast and Grendel are diametrically opposed in almost every aspect. A few examples include:

• A noise outside the door brings Grendel instantly to her feet, barking and ready to face any challenger. Bast usually slinks into the kitchen and peers mistrustfully around the fridge until the scary sound goes away.
• Despite never having gone hungry in 8 years, Grendel gobbles down every bit of kibble like it could her last. Bast, who came to me emaciated and malnourished, sometimes decides he's not that hungry for a couple days at a time and would rather just not eat, kthx.
• Grendel knows some basic English and in proper, loyal dog-fashion is slavishly obedient. Even being lightly scolded for something crushes her soul until she is quite literally debilitated and rolling on the ground in shame. When Bast gets shouted at, however, he calmly looks over at you, assesses how mad you are, and then decides whether to continue what he's doing or take off running. He knows when he's doing wrong - he just doesn't care.
• Grendel pees on everything outside of our den to mark it as her own. It took me forever to break Bast of peeing inside to mark it as ours, and then to quit eating his own turds outside to prevent predators from swooping out of the sky to kill us and take our home.

If I'd just let the leashes go, my life would be much simpler. 

Their differences are at their worst when going for walks. Taking them both for walks at the same time is a lesson in patience. Grendel charges forward every step of the way, tugging and straining to reach the next pissing check-point. She always has and I've never been able to correct her leash manners despite working on it for years. The best we can come to is a sullen truce where she just propels me forward at a pace slightly faster than I'm comfortable walking. Her business cannot wait for my puny two-legged walking speed.

Walking Bast is like walking a well-trained kitten. For the most part, he pads calmly at my side until something distracts him - a leaf to chase, a smell to roll in, a grasshopper to pounce on, the voices in his head say "go this way!" He dances around me, occasionally remembering that he's supposed to stay at my side and go at my pace before his mind is completely captivated by something new. Our walks together usually involve him rolling on something horrid that he's found, such as this episode where he found the remains of a decapitated duck and had to grind its putrescent funk into his fur:

I will never know such bliss.

Alone, I can deal with each of their walking quirks. Together, their combined craziness is almost too much. Grendel spearheads our dysfunctional little pack while Bast stays by my side for the start. We look like this until we reach our usual walking area:

Behold the power of MS Paint

Grendel's tugging is obnoxious at this point, but our little solar system is more-or-less functional until we cross the street and get to the museum where we walk. At this point, Bast's psychotic little mind enters the first stages of sensory overload and he starts to peel off to investigate things:

They both have 6 foot leads, so they can orbit up to 12 feet around me. Bast will get distracted by things and then remember he's out on a walk with his SUPER BESTEST FRIEND GRENDEL and go join her for a few minutes:

As Bast becomes more and more distracted by the wondrous world around him, order begins to break down.

Attempts to reinstate order at this point involve me tugging sharply on Grendel's leash to signal a halt, pirouetting through the stranglehold of leashes around me, and then threatening to drop both dogs off at the night deposit box at the pound. The dogs, blithely unaware of how close they're getting to being dropped off in a field somewhere, resume their prior activities as if I hadn't interfered at all. 

I stumble along behind them, wondering why I even like these animals and what choices in my life lead me to this point before announcing that I'm tired and we're turning back. Grendel will do an immediate about-face and continue chugging back the way we came, but Bast instantly begins pouting at having to go home and starts to lag behind me, all 6 feet of his leash extended, so that my arms look like crazy pinwheels as I hold onto Grendel surging ahead and drag the ornery sulkbeast along behind us.

I need to invest in obedience classes.