I got married this summer and along with various brothers-in-law, sisters-in-law, nieces, and nephews, I inherited another relative I hadn't really counted on-a dog-in-law. My wife's parents own a Siberian husky, who seems nice enough, but I'm nervous anyway.
This isn't the fault of the dog, who has never actually done anything to me. The groundwork for this particular neurosis was laid many years ago by a dog I went to college with.
For the purposes of this story, I'm going to change the name of the dog in question. A dachshund, he was seven years old at the time, and if he is still alive, he is somewhere around 22 years old and has enough problems to deal with. I will call him Heinrich.
Heinrich belonged to a professor of mine, who was one of the leading academic scholars in the field of Medieval history. (My decision to major in Medieval history and my subsequent years of professional pizza delivery are another story best left until another time.) I worked closely with this professor and over time, we became fairly close. So close in fact, that when she had to fly to Europe for a conference over Christmas vacation one year, she asked me to housesit for her.
Before she turned over the house keys to me, she gave me a tour of the place and showed me how everything worked. I made a careful mental note of two things: 1) the location of the liquor cabinet and 2) the fact that all chairs and sofas in the house had lengths of PVC pipe laying across them. This was a very nice house, full of graceful antiques, oriental carpets and stunning artwork. It seemed odd to have construction materials just lying around like that, so I asked my professor about the pipes.
The pipes, it turned out, were for Heinrich. This was told to me without any further explanation, so I let it go. I looked down at the dachshund, who wagged back at me and the three of us continued on through the house. Half an hour later, the tour over, I carried my professor's bags to her car. Heinrich and I waved goodbye to her as she drove off, then I went inside to call my friends and invite them over for a party.
Everyone was very impressed by my new digs, and Heinrich was a big hit, too. It was only during dinner that things started to go sour. I was busy tossing a salad at the time and didn't see what was going on until a friend discretely tapped me on the arm and told me that I should "probably do something about the dog." In the awkward silence, I suddenly heard a soft, chuckling, grunting sound. We had been sitting in the living room before dinner and had forgotten to replace the PVC pipes. I looked over at the sofa now to see Heinrich enjoying conjugal relations with one of the seat cushions.
This is probably the king of all conversation killers.
Amorous adventures with fabric seemed to be a bit of a theme with Heinrich. In the weeks that followed, I discovered that unless blocked by a PVC pipe or distracted by a blood-curdling scream, Heinrich would schtup anything soft and fabricky. This detracted from our relationship somewhat.
Unfortunately, Heinrich and I still had to see quite a bit of each other, even after his owner returned. I had to meet with her once or twice a week and from time to time, we'd have these meetings at her house, where we would discuss Medieval topics like religious schisms and disembowelings over cookies and sherry on her veranda. Things would be fine if Heinrich was locked up in the house, but if he was let out into the garden with us, he would zoom in on me like a Patriot missile.
Well, not me, so much as my leg, if you know what I mean.
Take it from me-it is almost impossible to discuss Medieval history in any meaningful way with a dachshund clamped to your leg like some sort of creepy, unhygienic shinguard. I would usually distract my professor with a question like, "What kind of dahlias are those?" or "Hey! Is that a turkey vulture?" then kick very hard, sending Heinrich flying into the bushes.
My professor, one of the top professionals in her field and a certified genius, never seemed to catch on to any of this. She'd look down at her dog giving me one of his "special hugs" and say something like, "Oh, isn't Heinie cute? He's so friendly!"
It's a wonder I ever graduated.
So now, years later, as my new in-laws' huge, wolf-like dog looks at me with a menacing gleam in its eye, I can only hope that it's blood-lust and not something worse.
