OTIS POOPS IN THE CAR

I have always been a sucker for Bassett Hounds. I met my first for real Bassett when I was 14. Her name was Clementine and I was smitten. I swore to myself then that this was the breed of dog I would have when I was a grown up.  It’s something about the whole makeup of them: the big ears, the sad eyes, the short legs and huge feet. Barry says if that’s what I’m into in men as well, he can happily oblige. He bought me a Bassett puppy for our first Christmas together, and so my launch into Bassett mamahood began.

My first Bassett, Moose, was an anomaly. She was smart. She was trainable. She was a discount Bassett and that is probably why. I lost her when she dug her way out of a big yard cage and crossed a busy highway. I now know that it would never even occur to a typical Bassett to attempt an escape. Bassetts, by and large, are known to be slaves to their noses, fairly unteachable, smelly, high maintenance and as stubborn as mules.

Enter Otis Cosmopolitan Patterson. We bought him from a reputable Bassett breeder in Nebraska, who met us at a Denver airport hotel so that we could intercept our new baby. As all of the puppies scooted around on the hotel grass, we recognized him from his online profile. He was a head taller than all of the others so we figured he must have been from another litter. Upon inquiry, we discovered that, no, “heh, heh,”  he was just gigantic.

To this day, I cannot figure out what I loved about Otis. He ate diapers. He never, ever, ever came when I called him. He wouldn’t eat his food without scattering it all over the floor and barking at it.  He flung slobber onto every flat surface he passed by. He smelled like a sewer rat most of the time. He pretty near pulled my arm out of socket when we went on walks, so that he could go smell stinky stuff. He was never successfully potty trained in 9 years. He would power through our electric fence to get to a fox. He rolled in animal poop. He climbed onto the breakfast table and ate cereal out of the kids’ bowls. He stole all of the steaks at a BBQ. He ate a whole box of donuts and puked it up in the living room.  I guess probably the only thing that endeared him to me was his stunning good looks.

He grew at a rapid rate and quickly became a “Bubba” type of persona in our household. When we pretended we were him and gave voice to his probable musings, (as you do), it always came out in a deep, southern accent. We started a series of quips we called, “Dear Diary” (this was the brain child of our dear friend and family member, Beth Rohman). Otis would do something ridiculous and one of us would say, in our deepest voice and best southern accent, something like, “Dear Diary, today I ate some diapers. I got through three whole diapers before Mom even caught me. I’m gettin’ faster.”  You get the drift. We imagined that, in people form, he would be a dim witted, slow speaking, oafish, southern Bubba.

Bassett Hound toenails are hefty. They are best trimmed by a groomer or vet and one day, the kids and I loaded Otis up in the suburban for his first pedicure. He happily slobbered all over the window all the way there and we made plans to pick up a pizza afterwards.

Our vet in Colorado was kind and capable. Otis was put through a standard procedure of muzzling to keep him from biting during his trim. However, as we recount what then transpired from Otis’ “Dear Diary” perspective, it went something like this.

“Dear Diary,

 Today my Mom tried to kill me. She took me to the mean man with the curly hair. He put a horrible torture mask on me and had his evil helpers hold me down while he tried to chop off my toes. Don’t you worry, I fought for my life. I kicked those suckers right where it counts. I made my back go all straight and flipped one way and then the other way over and over again and they couldn’t even hold me down. Then they got more evil helpers to lay down on me and squash me. I howled and howled and called the kids for help but the mask made me too quiet and they couldn’t hear me. That curly haired man did get some of my toes chopped off, but I checked, and I think I still have most of ‘em. What’s weird is, the whole time, Mom just stood there laughing. Mom is crazy. Why does she hate me? Don’t worry, I got her back.”

After said episode was over, we loaded him back into the suburban, in the front passenger seat, me muttering disgustedly at him all the while. I got the kids buckled into their car seats and off to the pizza shop we went. We laid our dinner on the front dashboard and headed home. We were about five miles from home when I saw him struggling to get into his “crouch” position.  Surely not. Horrified, I started yelling at him and trying to reach him to try to shove him OUT of that position. He just looked at me and, I swear, he smiled an evil smile, right at me. He proceeded to poop the largest Bassett Hound poop onto the seat. I was screaming at him to stop the whole time and the kids quickly followed suit.  And then, since he had nowhere to go, he just sat on it.  The suburban immediately filled with fresh, hot Bassett poop smell and the kids all started gagging. I rolled down the windows as fast as I could and the freezing winter air gusted in, which was preferable to suffocating on the Otis poop fog. I yelled at him at the top of my lungs. He just sat contentedly on his homemade log, his ears and tongue blowing in the icy wind. By the time we got home, our pizza was cold and was now pepperoni and essence of dog crap.  Thank God for leather seats.

My own personal diary entry that day went something like this:

“Dear Diary,

 Why am I so shallow that I would choose good looks over brains? Why? Why? Why?”