I’ve never disputed the fact that Chance can be a pain; his disability and chronic health problems combined with incontinence and a quick temper certainly make for a handful of fluff and fury. But one thing I never considered was the possibility that maybe, just maybe, he isn’t the descendant of canids at all, but rather a cat trapped in a dog’s body. Before you disregard my theory as a misguided attempt to account for bad behaviour, consider for a moment the clues that have led me to this unusual notion:
He doesn’t bark. This doesn't mean he’s quiet, lord knows that isn’t the case. He has sounded his whiny alarm at 2 am every night for the past two weeks, and offers a wide array of spits, whines, growls and high pitched screams that rip me from my pleasant slumber and bring me back to a urine-filled reality. He just doesn't bark. That’s another thing, he hisses. Ask any of the volunteers at S.A.I.N.T.S. or any of his vets who’ve tried to look in his mouth, this tiny, hairy beast will open his maw and let loose an intimidating hiss from deep down in his gut.
He doesn’t like to chew. We’ve tried everything from raw bones, frozen bananas, toys, smoked treats, balls, anything that’s supposed to taste good and fit in his mouth, yet he insists on rejecting our offerings.
He doesn’t play. I’ve tried enticing him with the most tempting squeaker toys, noisy balls, and treat dispensing devices, even going as far as fashioning a make-shift stuffed toy from an old sweater and discarded bed fluff - still nothing. The only thing he’s showed an iota of interest in is Jeremy’s dirty socks; I shudder at the memory of finding him with a day old wool work-sock hidden beneath his broad chest within the nest of his favourite bed. Gross.
He hates the outdoors. And I don’t just mean rugged camp sites or crowded dog parks; any area that isn’t fully enclosed and heated isn’t up to snuff for him. He’ll tolerate a short stint on our deck with us in the summer-time, but as soon as the sun moves westward and casts us into the shadows, he makes his way towards the back door.
Am I reading too much into his feline-like behaviour? Maybe it’s a breed thing, or maybe Chance is just a spoiled, frustrated, oddball of a dog. That would be fitting being that I’m an ill-tempered tomboy trapped in an adult woman’s body. Regardless of his origin or species, it appears Chance and I are a suitable match.