Twitchy

I have three dogs (according to my father, that's one dog too many,) like all dogs they have their own unique quirks and personalities. They can be summed up by their nicknames: Itchy, Twitchy and Bitchy. Obviously these aren't their real names, but in the interest of protecting their identities their names are being withheld (that and I like calling them Itchy, Twitchy and Bitchy.)

Their roles in the house seemed set in stone up until about two years ago. Around that time, I figure a very invasive, very bitey breed of flea must have started a family in our backyard. Twitchy, who up until that point had been a very solitary creature, so named for her undying fear of loud noises, gray skies and passing blue birds, became a member of the household.

She'd always been quite playful, and up until our accidental acquisition of Itchy, made a point to play at the same time every day. Six AM. Like evil clockwork. Once the little mutt was introduced to the household she became a lot more interested in inter-canine affairs and found her way out of ours. Until, of course, the (assumed--I've yet to find evidence) flea invasion.

Scratching became her drug. Every opportunity found her face in yours, just long enough to make eye contact, her eyes intoning a deep desire to be loved. Just as you reach out to pet that adorable face, she would swing her body around and throw her ass into your outstretched hand. The ol' bait and switch. I fell for it for quite awhile before she realized she needed new methods. She began just standing there. Ass leaned up on your leg. Making weird moaning and yipping noises. Clearly upset and not above showing her displeasure. Eventually she would begin nipping at you. Encouragingly at first, desperate within seconds of you not scratching.

Her drug were fingers and there was no way out. When Twitchy was a puppy she had what we called her "War on Entertainment." It was a brutal campaign of attrition where the only plausible solution seemed to be outspending her rate of chewing.

She went after anything that reeked of amusement. Television remotes, DVD cases, DVD's, books, video game controller chords, pillows, reading glasses and the occasional slipper. In fact, once she found an object of aforementioned joy and relaxation, she would tirelessly toil away at it's destruction until only a few measly fibers or filaments of it remained to bespeak it's existence. Case in point, she once got after a book of my father's. He caught her in the act and somehow managed to get her to refrain. He put some Scotch tape along the binding, put it back on the shelf, and went about his business. Within an hour he was back in his room, presumably doing dad things, when he found her destroying what he found to be the same book.

An idea struck. He taped the book up again--with a lot more tape. By the time she finally lost interest in said book, he had taped it up over a dozen times. He'd added pages from our printer, he'd hidden it in places he was sure she wouldn't find it, but he always made sure it was within her reach--and more importantly, her smell. We learned a valuable lesson that day--sometimes on book must die, so that many books may live.

We began applying this to all of our objects. Within months you could find taped up glasses and remote controls, sewed up pillows and slippers with toes sticking out.

Twitchy eventually outgrew her predilection to eating anything remotely fun. She discovered a fierce love of just holding things in her mouth and running around like a five year old being chased by a wasp. At some point she must have been holding such a thing, for example, a sock, when my mother, bless her, decided she needed said sock in the laundry.

I can see my mother, standing in the laundry room, staring at Twitchy as she wagged her tail excitedly, menacingly. Two thoughts must have entered my mother's head:
A) Chase the dog around for the next ten minutes to maybe get the sock from her in some kind of working order.
B) Present dog with a better option, i.e. a cookie for a sock.

So, as is to be expected, my mother bartered with a four legged creature whose whole thought process was most likely "this feels soft, yeeeey." It should have been a pretty story with a happy ending, for dog, sock and mother. But instead, a monster was born.

You see, Twitchy is the smartest of our dogs. Which, I realize is a lot like saying "he's the fastest offensive lineman on the team." He still weighs 350 and isn't chasing down a frisbee in a breeze, much less a corner back running a 4.2 forty. But, all metaphors aside, Twitchy developed a system. She began hunting socks with a zealotry. When no socks were available she began to substitute in underwear. And every time her reward was the same. A cookie for her troubles.

Within months I was missing over half of my sock pairings. I was wearing gray with black and short with long. My sister had changed her style to "tastefully tacky" due to the sudden lack of a neon green twin to her already ridiculous sock choices.
We began to make sure everything was off the floor. Our rooms weren't necessarily clean, but the laundry was put away.

Twitchy began to take trash from the wastebaskets, she began stealing caps off of bottles you were currently drinking out of. Napkins that still had hands gripping them. If and when she got a hold of these objects she would immediately sprint away joyously, just to return within a few moments, object still in mouth, shaking feverishly waiting for her treat.

And that's how I'll always remember her--happily wagging her tail holding onto one of my possessions. Not like she will be in the next few minutes-that is to say dead, if she doesn't give me my !@#$ing sock back.