<

Murphy is three and a half years old. We're not 100% sure what Murphy is. She's either a badly-bred beagle or a badly-bred foxhound. The only concensus we can reach on this matter is that whatever she is, she's badly-bred. But we can't really fault her for that. She had no more control over her bloodline than any of us. Just like Clara Jane didn't ask to come from the unfortunate combination of Missouri hillbilly* and Michigan Yooper bloodlines, Murphy didn't ask to be born with genetics working against her. That's just the way it happened and I remind myself on an hourly basis that this is not her fault.

Murphy was born in a puppy mill, which was raided by the law not long after her birth. Unfortunately, her mother didn't survive. Also unfortunately, the first person to adopt Murphy was in no position to have a needy hound dog. While her owner worked 14-hour days, Murphy spent her childhood in a crate. By the time we adopted her, she was 9 months old and a complete spazz. But we could take it. With love! And a firm but gentle hand! We could turn this exotic beauty into a fine, loyal pet!

Did I mention that I got knocked up two weeks after Murphy moved in with us? Yeah. Kind of threw a monkey wrench into Project: Dumbass Renovation. Six weeks after her arrival, I gave serious consideration to granting Murphy her freedom, when she had the audacity to sprint out the front door, in the rain, the day after I spent an evening nauseous, claustrophic and smooshed in the pit at a White Stripes show. While running my chubby ass up and down the street, barefoot and pregnant, my untethered and tender F-cups bouncing hither and yon, I loudly announced to the entire neighborhood, "Fine! You stupid-ass motherfucking tard! Run free for all I care! The busy street's two blocks that-a-way!" while I stomped toward the house.

You know why I don't like my neighbors? Because one of them caught Murphy and put her back in my damn yard that day.

She can't help it. She was just born this way. She can't help being born stupid, anymore than she can help being born with that fucked-up little mouth with the upper jaw that juts one way and the lower jaw that juts the other. She can't help it. She can't help it. Oh lord, she just can't help it.

Things that Murphy can't help:

• Murphy can't help that her favorite hobby is staring.
  
• Murphy can't help that she sometimes forgets how to eat and often chokes on her breakfast.
  
• Murphy can't help that she sometimes forgets how to sleep and often falls asleep standing up, or with her eyes open. You don't know fear until you wake up at 3:30 a.m. and find yourself nose-to-snout with an intently staring, unmoving, snoring, upright dog. I dare you to go back to sleep after that and not dream about having your face eaten off.
  
• Murphy can't help it that she sometimes can't tell what's food and what isn't, and sometimes she winds up eating things like a Christmas tree, for example.
  
• Murphy can't help it that she doesn't know how to cough, instead making a noise that sounds like she's trying to orally expel a litter of puppies.
  

And yet, Murphy isn't even the dumbest dog we've owned. That honor belongs to a couch-eating, perpetually-pacing, never-sleeping, fence-jumping Airedale terrier who resided with us for three very long weeks in the summer of 2000. I had a friend who bred Airedales, and she needed to find a home for this dog. Sure! Why not? We'd had Chloe for a year at that point and had proven that a dog wouldn't die of neglect under our care, so we went for it.

About a week into Airedale ownership, we knew we'd made a big mistake. This dog was used to running free in the country and didn't adapt well to city life. Even though we have a sizeable fenced backyard, she took to jumping it every single time we'd let her outside, thus introducing my neighbors to my braless, barefoot, screaming dog-chasing skills.

Leaving the dog in the house wasn't an option either because she liked to eat the couch:

I had to do something I swore I'd never do with a dog: we resorted to chaining her when she was outside. I just hate doing this because 1) I think it's cruel, and 2) I didn't trust my ability to not turn that chain into a noose for this damn dog that did absolutely nothing but pace, pant, pester my dog, try to eat my cats, pace, pant, attempt to box me like a kangaroo, eat furniture, pace, and empty her soft-serve-machine-like bowels on my floors five times a day.

I think Chloe's pose in this photo pretty much describes how we were all feeling by Day Four of the Airedale Invasion. Tired. Beleagured. Stomped flat. Problem was, my friend was in the middle of moving and couldn't take the dog back for three weeks. We were stuck.

In the middle of Airedale Hell, B. and I got a repreve. My parents came to town for the weekend so we could take my dad to a Nascar Busch race for his birthday. My mom opted to stay at my house, where she cleaned my stove, cleaned up dog shit, and wrestled with that stupid-ass dog in the pouring rain when the dog refused to come inside, choosing instead to sit in the rain, head upturned, in immenent risk of drowning like a goddamn turkey. That one evening has provided my mom with enough mother guilt to get us through the next two decades.

A few nights later, B. and I were spending yet another sleepless night watching the dog pace around the room. Why weren't we sleeping? You try sleeping with a pubic-hair-covered dog brushing against you every thirty seconds as she paces, stopping every two minutes to rest her slobbery chin on your pillow and pant in your face.

Finally, sometime after the three a.m. hour, B. sat bolt upright in bed and screamed, "Ratfuck! Just go to bed!"

And I was so delirious from the lack of sleep, so oxygen-starved from all the face-panting that all I could do was roll over and laugh - great gasping, gut-wrenching howls of laughter until I thought my ears would explode from the pressure.

"Ratfuck?" I finally choked. "Ratfuck? Where they hell did you come up with that?"

"My God, Robin! Just look at her! Look! She's a Ratfuck!"

He does make a good point. Such a good point, in fact, that I can't remember that dog's real name because in that instant, she became Ratfuck. And Ratfuck she will forever be.

We reached our breaking point three days before we were due to return Ratfuck from wence she came. The $75 to have her boarded was worth our sanity, and probably cheaper than whatever else Ratfuck would have done to our furniture had she remained with us. After three days in a pen at the local veteranarian's office, we drove her across the state and returned her to my friend. While the Ratfuck hand-off went well, it was pretty much the end of that friendship. Call me shallow, but I just couldn't respect anyone who had that much love in her heart for that dog.**

Why am I telling you all of this? Because my dad is so fucking arrogant when it comes to his dogs. Admittedly, he goes the easy route with naturally smart breeds, like Labradors and Australian Cattle Dogs. I prefer to think that's he's simply not up to the challenge a dog like Murphy or Ratfuck might present. But it gets old, hearing how stupid my dogs are. Chloe's not stupid; she's just smart enough to know when pretending to be stupid will serve her best interests. Murphy, well, obviously I can't argue with his assessment.

Yesterday, any "my dogs are smarter than your dogs" arguments my dad might make in the future lost all water. My mom, who still insists on reading my blog (Hi Mom. Go away.), is now offering story suggestions for the blog. And, being shameless, I'm taking them, because God knows she has the best first-hand access to all the crazy family shit.

"I've got a story for your website blog thing," she said. "Yesterday your dad was outside with the chainsaw..."

"Wait wait wait ... No story that begins with 'yesterday your dad was outside with the chainsaw' ever ends well," I said.

"Well, there's blood in this one."

"What did he cut off this time?"

"Oh, it wasn't your dad that got hurt. He fired up the chainsaw and Chiggar bit it."

You remember Chiggar, right? The dog that's really a dingo?

Seems that Dad fired up the ol' chainsaw, and in his zeal to protect his master from the blade (which, I admit, is pretty smart of the dog; he obviously knows his master's history), he bit the chain. While it was going.

He's fine. Cut his mouth a bit, but not enough to slow him down. While I don't wish Chiggar any harm, I must admit that I'm thrilled. There's no argument anymore; the person who owns the dog who bites the fucking chainsaw while it's running officially owns the dumbest dog. Ever. I'm going to enjoy this for as long as possible. At least until Chiggar gets accidentally decapitated.

*Just so you know, it took me three tries to properly spell the name of the state where I've lived for my entire life, lest you think I'm exaggerating.

**It seemed to be a mutual feeling, as I don't think she had much respect left for me after the Ratfuck incident, and I can't say I blame her. Would you like someone who named your dog Ratfuck?