Travis, A Spoilt, Only Child


Travis likes his new status as an only child. I guess my terrible guilt about Bob passing away morphed into a type of overprotective indulgence, so I bought Travis new everything. He now owns two handmade leashes, one that even glows in the dark. I bought him a FAFO collar (I will leave it to you to figure that one out) with white lettering stitched all around on a solid black background. I thought long and hard about what fantasy hero Travis most closely resembles, and I believe his personality is much like that of Deadpool, with all the tragic cynicism and raunchiness, so I bought him a fancy Deadpool Buckle-Down collar for those special occasions when we will be around the public. He is also the proud owner of a brand new Pendleton cushion, pictured above, in that splendid blue plaid color suitable for a feisty Scottish rat hunter.

I think Travis believes his time in the doggy foster care system, while meaningful and loving, is no match for his new peaceful, materialistic lifestyle with a dedicated Mommy. His happiness and contentment just leaps out at you.

Still, he is uncertain about other humans. I took him with me to get the oil changed the other day and the technician decided to ignore my request to keep his hands out of the car. Like everyone else that thinks they can reform a hyper-vigilant dog with their own version of personal charm, this guy foolishly walks up, quite aggressively, to the window where Travis suspiciously watched all of the action inside the shop. When the tech muttered, "Don't worry, all dogs like me," I knew he would end up bloody.

People like that should not be around power tools or dogs. 

Needless to say, the manager escorted me and Travis into the lounge area and asked that we wait there "alone" while they completed the service. I don't understand why people attempt to prove themselves with an untrusting canine. If the only noise you can hear rumbling up from a dog's throat sounds like the snarling of a rabid wolf, then it's probably a good decision to back up and not stick your hand into an open set of jaws. 

It happens over and over. I can cover Travis in warning labels from his neck to the tip of his tale, and if we are out in the public someone will casually walk over and proclaim they are a dog whisperer that "all dogs like." I can recite the whole wretched story about Travis' torment with a shock collar and his unstable childhood; I can even add some embellishments to his story to make him seem even more wretched and unpredictable; I can even truthfully state that Travis sent me, his owner--the love of his life--to the urgent care, and some foolish, knuckle-head will still try to pet him. 

Travis, like many unpredictable dogs, is a beautiful and sweet creature, at least in appearance. But he has his personal reasons for wanting to maintain a distance from strangers, so I don't encourage anyone to come near him. I think he likes it that way. I think he is happy in our "aloneness." I know, with time, that Travis will widen his circle of acceptable humans, but he is no rush.








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