Jo-Ann Mapson

Welcome to Clown School

I take a lot of ribbing about owning small dogs-four, to be exact. Foolish people believe that a real dog must weigh eighty pounds minimum, and any dog small enough to fit into a purse is an oversized rat. I say don't knock small dogs until you've tried them. Fifteen years ago I drove to Perris, California, a town with a produce stand, feed store, gas station, and a bank. I paid $300 for a purebred Jack Russell terrier pup to cheer up my then adolescent son, Jack. Between zits, glasses, and getting beat up, he needed some unconditional love, and what better vehicle to deliver that than a puppy? Unfortunately, Max did not like Jack, or anyone on the planet with the exception of Oscar Mayer had he crashed his wiener mobile in our driveway and spilled all the cold cuts. A year later, we adopted Echo, half mini-dachsie and half Italian greyhound (think wiener dog on stilts).

Echo was Jack's saving grace, an earth angel. As my brother says, "Jo, you get one good dog and one good relationship," and Echo qualified for both. We enjoyed six years of being a two-dog household, then one day a student came into my comp class sobbing, "My dog had puppies last night and I didn't even know she was pregnant!" I agreed to take the runt, a female Papillon we named Verbena. Echo and Max behaved like Kennedys suddenly finding themselves shopping inside a Wal-Mart. Verbena's presence was so offensive to Echo that she would physically turn her head when the dog came into view.

Stewart's entirely to blame for Cricket. He brought that poor abused dog to me at a time in my life when I couldn't have turned away a pet barracuda if it meant I'd feel needed. Cricket has agoraphobia, and obsessive-compulsive fetch disorder (OCFD). When you live your first year in a cage, those things happen. We weaned her from the habit of drinking water from a hamster bottle, and tossed the cage, but she remains mental over tennis balls, and brings them to bed with her. The problem is, Verbena despises Cricket the way the Jets hated the Sharks in West Side Story. The vets at Pet Emergency know us well due to several after-hours rumbles. When Echo passed away, things might turned manageable if we hadn't gone and got Henry. He's still a puppy, so that means there's a shred of hope that he will learn to be a good dog in time.

The other night Cricket was standing guard at the Viking stove, which generally means a tennis ball has rolled underneath. She whines and trembles until the nearest human retrieves said love object. It was Stewart's turn. I had no sooner turned my back than I heard the high-pitched death song of a mouse, followed by the rapid clack of doggie toenails into the guest room. Stewart and I take turns fetching balls and doing laundry, but trash day and dead rodents are his alone. As he scooped the mouse into the trash, Cricket followed behind him, the wild glint of a first kill lighting her eyes. "Call me Mice-T," she seemed to be saying, "the Grandmaster of Rat." For days she returned to the stove because despite what scientists say, lightning can strike twice.

Small dogs offer much: reasonable food bills, tiny accidents, lap-warming capabilities, and four will fit nicely into the back seat of a Honda Civic. When I come home from teaching, my herd is there to greet me, exploding like cheerleaders that I'm back. I'm good for opening cans, throwing balls, or taking them for walks. When I'm sick, they lie on the bed with me. When I'm sad, they behave ridiculously until I realize whatever's troubling me is never more important than petting a furry friend. Best of all, they provide a continuous source of hilarious anecdotes and writing material. Every day with them is like spending a month at clown school with the guys wearing the dunce caps.

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