Murphy to be Turtored

by Joseph Greenleaf
Copyright 2005 Joseph Greenleaf

Young Mister Murphy is, it must be said, an Ulsterman. This means he will happily clear out any barroom, religious gathering or nest of vipers. He fears no dog. He has been tagging behind me since he was the size of a mouse and therein lies the problem. If I stop, he bumps into me. If I get out of the chair to cross the room, he rises to protect me from Bengal tigers, burglars, lesser dogs, and—wives.

Murphy decided, at some point, that I was the Protectee and anyone seeking to enter into the invisible—and unannounced—combat zone is Fair Game.

Now, if I were crossing the Steppes in winter, sleeping in hollow logs and Murph was protecting me from wolves, that would be a good thing. Sleeping out under the stars in Nepal, I’d happily have Murphy protecting me from footpads. That, too, would be fine.

Murphy is, nominally, a “Family Dog.” This generally is supposed to mean that all of the family loves him and he loves all of the family. If I’m away, Murphy is the family dog who sleeps snuggled up against my bride, Karlene, gets in a row for dog treats, is walked, petted and otherwise treated the same as the other dogs. This is, of course, until I arrive on the scene, at which time he becomes Psycho Boy and takes up his stance as Guardian Angel, except he’s no angel, as you shall see.

Inside the invisible ring he’s drawn around himself, with me in the middle, he’s been known to give a low growl to anyone or any thing that comes into the “yellow” zone outside the “red zone.” This is a little disconcerting, and I will tell him to back off and tell the person—ten feet away—that he’s just a little “cranky,” “out-of-sorts” or some kind of alibi.

If I had the Big One, the dog catcher would have to be called because Murphy probably wouldn’t let the ambulance squad anywhere near me. I would have pennies on my eyes before I got any help. This is not good.

All of this was worrisome, but there had been no incidents to speak of until a couple of weeks ago, as Karlene and I, on a Saturday, were packing for a trip to Ireland. Murphy was going to go into a dog hotel for a fortnight. I was tapping merrily on the computer, with Murphy in his usual position at my feet.

Karlene wandered in to tell me something I probably didn’t need to know and, before she could finish her sentence, Murphy let out a fierce growl and attacked her, biting down on her hand and one of her—well, he bit her someplace else. I flew to her defence and put him in his crate.

She required medical treatment.

The next day, Murphy had his Dr. Hannibal Lector muzzle on, again lying next to me He saw her in the hall, gave out the growl and ran at her, jumping up onto her, but he couldn’t bite.

This was very, very bad.

She was on medication for over a week, and had a very sore hand and…she was sore. I got the “him or me” talk, richly deserved. Murphy was taken to the dog hotel a few hours early, and they were warned.

Choices were, it seemed, to send him to another astral plane, give him to someone who could deal with him, eliminate the source of his overabundance of testosterone, or bachelorhood.

I was reminded of the Far Side cartoon where a dog in a car is talking to another dog at the side of the road, bragging how he just went for ice cream, and then they were going to go to the vet where he would be tutored.

I opted to get Murphy tutored, and we’d see how, or if, he changes in the next six to eight months, during which time he will be on double-not-so-secret probation and house arrest.

So, this past week, I drove into my private parking space at the vet, went to the VIP lounge, drank some champagne and ate some little shrimps whilst Murphy got tutored.

My son’s fiancé is in vet school and she asked for his bits, so, to the amusement of all at the vet’s, I left with one sore Murphy on a lead and his bits in a plastic bag. I didn’t let him see them, putting them directly into the freezer until she collects them. I only hope that one of my drunken friends doesn’t rummage around in the fridge in the dark, looking for ice cubes…

Murphy’s contemplating changing his name to Mur-fey, asked for a new collar in something like mauve or ripe plum, and has an alarming new interest in show tunes.

I’ve cancelled my backpack trip with him to Nepal, as he probably could provide harmony for the Vienna Boys’ Choir before long.

We are both pariahs in family circles, and must sit far out from the campfire.

I have been warned that Murphy has used up all of his chances, and that if there is a repeat of his Hannibal Lector stunt, there will be a second set of bits in the freezer.

We are trying to behave.

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jgreenleaf @ o2.ie or jagreenleaf @ yahoo.com

Joseph Greenleaf is an Irish author and publisher. His books can be purchased at: http://www.swordpoint.com

Last Update: 07/24/05, 19:19:51  Terms of Use and Disclaimer.