TEAM LAST CALL

As you may or may not know, Jack Russells are famous for two things: their hyperactivity and their ability to, while you’re standing up, hit you in the face with their wet nose approximately 10 times per second.

But when you’re wandering the halls of the Humane Society looking for a dog, and you see a little, shaking puppy with big brown eyes, and he’s crying out, “Ri ruv roo!” and looking helpless, it’s easy to forget which kind of dog you swore you would never, ever allow into your house.

The puppy hypnotized us with cuteness. Before we knew it, we were back in the car, driving home with a brand new dog filling our brand new back seat with piles of brand new vomit.

I, for one, was excited about owning a nervous little dog, mostly because they make for a great conversation piece at parties. Consider this scene:

Cocktail party. Lights down low. Sinatra humming in the background. Enter my nervous little dog, vibrating its way across the floor between our guests’ legs. Amused friends point, giggle, and say something like, “Look at that shaky little dog!” At which point I pull out a real zinger like, “Yeah, he’s been drinking espressos all day!” We all have a hearty laugh, and my friends wipe their eyes, pat me on the back, and say things like, “You did it again, Jeff!” and “It must be exhausting being so funny all the time!” and “Aaah! Your dog just ate my baby!”

They say this because, as it turns out, once we got him home, our new dog turned into the devil. Tongue flapping in the wind, he darted about the house in evil glee, spraying pee on the floor, eating the couch cushions, bulldozing the cats, knocking over lamps, and, finally, relieving himself in the worst way on the recliner.

“OK. So. Back to the pound he goes,” I said.

“But, I love him!” my wife said, scooping up the dog and running up the stairs.

“... Yes, of course you do,” I muttered.

A few ruined carpets, mangled slippers, and sleepless nights later, it was time to officially name the dog. We needed something that was fitting to his demeanor. I had to veto Sweetums, Snuggledog, and Puppernutter from my wife’s list. Likewise, she overruled my initial suggestions of Satan, Crappy, and The Worst Dog in the World. After much debate, we eventually agreed on “Henry” (French for “eats his own poop”).

Determined to take some wind out of his sails, my wife decided to take Henry to the vet for The Big Snip. I thought it would be funny to change his name from He-nry to It-nry after the neutering, but was shot down.

In her defense, my wife did give Henry plenty of warning, mostly in the form of threatening “scissor fingers.”

“Henry! Snip snip!” she’d say, opening and closing her scissor fingers menacingly at the dog. “Get off the couch!”

“Henry! Snip snip! Don’t pee in the house!”

“Henry! Snip snip! Drop that baby!”

“Snip snip!” “Snip snip!” “Snip snip!”

But in the end, poor Henry would meet the fate suffered by so many ’N Sync members before him: castration. He returned home a day later, stripped of his dignity (among other things) and wearing a lamp shade around his neck.

As far as I can tell, all we accomplished by having Henry neutered was decreasing his wind resistance. Within two days of The Big Snip, he was back in action, shattering his own speed records for finding a sock, chewing up the sock, eating the sock, puking up the sock, and bringing it to us in bed.

I have learned to appreciate the little things about Henry, like how he sometimes gets so excited to see us that he pees a little (When’s the last time anyone got that excited to see you?), and how, when he’s tired enough, he’ll let us put little reindeer antlers on his head and take pictures.

Not that any of this compensates for the three pillows, the couch, the recliner, the two floormats, and the backyard the dog has destroyed. Also on the casualty list is our elderly cat, Mr. Puddy, who now spends most of his time trying to keep Henry’s ice-cold nose out of his most private of areas. The rest of his time is spent communicating his displeasure in subtle ways, like shredding our chair legs down to the width of Ally McBeal.

The other day, I walked into the basement to find Henry enjoying the last of a little delicacy we like to call “the cat’s litter box.” A clever dog to the end, he decided not to squander this treasure trove of deliciousness, but rather to save some treats for later. That’s the only explanation I have for why, that evening, I discovered litter-coated cat nuggets in my shoe. After my foot was in it.

“That’s it! I have had enough! That dog goes back to the pound tomorrow!” I yelled with authority.

My wife turned to me, raised one eyebrow, and began waving her scissor fingers in my direction. “Jeff! Snip snip!” she said.

“Um, never mind,” I said, and scampered out the door to buy a new recliner for Henry to defile.