Wyatt Emmerich: We just open the door and let the dogs in
By Wyatt Emmerich/For The Tribune
Thursday, November 30, 2006 10:59 AM CST
The Emmerich Trappers have now won the Grand Slam of family trapping. We finally got a raccoon.
You gotta love living in Mississippi. We live in the center of the biggest city in the state and we have now trapped rabbits, possums, foxes, raccoons and wild cats in our animal-friendly, have-a-heart trap. The wild cat was precisely that: a wild cat. We're still going to shoot for a skunk and an armadillo.
My red-haired, eight-year-old Lawrence and his tow-haired buddy Jake Pierce, son of Jill and Paul Pierce, are the trapping experts. Lawrence designed a careful menu of ribs, crackers, chicken and french fries to catch the wiley raccoon.
Our backyard abuts an old five acre graveyard and we set the trap in the dark, a little too close to Halloween for Jake and Lawrence's comfort. Even though we were armed with flashlights, there was a big fear factor. Four-year-old Ruth turned back at the thought of coyotes and ran squealing to the house and the comfort of Momma. The boys sucked it up and kept on.
Groggy and slurping coffee the next morning, I fumbled for the newspaper when the boys came running down the stairs. "Can we check the trap? Can we check the trap?" they screamed in unison. I had forgotten all about it.
Ah the sweet anticipation and the moment of joy when we realized we had indeed captured a big fat raccoon. It was surprisingly docile (and full) as we hauled the trap to the back porch for 30 minutes of observation before we let it go. It quickly scrambled up a nearby tree to the amazement of the boys.
I had no idea we would get so much joy from a $20 trap.
Speaking of trapping raccoons, we now have two new dogs in the Emmerich household -- Sparkey, a smooth-hair fox terrier, and Sally, a stray with a lot of beagle in her.
When the last of the children got out of diapers, I took a big sigh of relief with the thought of living a relatively normal household life. Why I harbored such fantasies is a mystery to me. No sooner than the diapers disappeared, the two rambunctious dogs appeared.
The campaign to wear me down was executed with masterful tactics and strategy. Lawrence and John would oooh and ahhh over somebody's dog and Ginny would look at them wistfully and say something like, "The boys really do love dogs. Children need dogs."
But we had a dog, I argued -- 17-year-old Aspen, our whippet, which is the perfect breed. But Aspen had long since retired to his pillow when the children arrived and didn't move much. Finally, Dottie Cole, my mother-in-law, adopted him. Aspen and Dottie stay with us several days a week.
No, I said. No. No. I was firm. I was strong. I was relentless. I guess they could still detect the slight undertone of uncertainty and defeat in my voice. Little by little, they wore me down. Things like all three children coming up to me, hugging me, telling me they loved me and then chiming into a chorus of "Poppa, can we please, please, please, pretty please have a puppy?"
Once I was softened up, it was time for the coup de grace. There had to be a precipitating event to seal the deal. This came when our friend Liz Carroll announced that a dear friend of her father's had passed away leaving the cutest, sweetest little terrier homeless. We could have the dog for free.
Free? My ears perked up. If I was going to relent, I might as well save a few bucks. They know me too well.
Before I knew it, the trap was set. Ginny was showing everybody pictures of the breed and Liz was going on and on about what an adorable little puppy this was. Best of all, it was already housebroken.
Free and housebroken? If I was going to lose, which I was, this was the best deal I was going to find. I agreed to fly up to Arkansas and pick up the dog.
We walked into Dell, Ark., airport with a little portable doggie cage. Liz's dad, Koehler Blankenship, met us at the door, eyeing my empty cage.
"Don't worry about the cage. He's already in a cage and you can just take him with you and keep the cage," Koehler said.
"No, no, no," I responded. "We've got a cage. No need to take yours. We'll just put him in our cage."
When I walked into the airport waiting area, I now realized what Koehler was getting at. The mannerism of the little terrier could best be described as that of a wild raccoon backed into a corner. He was snarling, growling, barking, hissing and ready to bite anything that moved. Ah, hah. So that's our sweet adorable dog.
Worst of all, he looked just like Bo-Bo, the dog that bit me on the nose causing it to swell to twice its size minutes before I had to attend a funeral in Greenwood in 1991.
Lawrence came up with the name Sparkey, because the dog's energy level and movement is like a spark. Sparkey greeted his new home with unending snarling, hissing, growling, barking and baring of teeth in between chewing up everything of value and nipping at anybody who tried to touch him.
The showdown came a few nights later when I arrived at my bed to find Sparkey firmly ensconced on my favorite pillow right in my sleeping spot. I warned him sternly to move and he snarled at me. I cautiously moved my hands to lift him and he nipped me.
That was it. It was time to establish the pecking order of the Emmerich household. I am the alpha male and I was not about to relinquish my crown to a 10-pound spotted dog. Off came my slipper. Sparkey's eyes got as big as saucers and he saw the writing on the wall and skedaddled.
But I wasn't done. This was pecking order time. I chased him around the house, whacking him with my slippers when I could, as he scrambled under sofas and over chairs to escape.
The kids scrambled from their beds. As I chased Sparkey whacking him with my slipper, they chased me crying in desperation, pleading with me not to hurt Sparkey. You had to be there.
My battle for male dominance with Sparkey was ultimately resolved by a minor surgical procedure at the vet. A few weeks later, a stray beagle started hanging around the house, apparently attracted by Sparkey's smell or my wife's attention. You see, she really wanted two dogs so they could keep each other company. The plot continued.
This time I gave in immediately, seeing as I was going to lose ultimately anyway. Ginny dubbed the stray Sally and we sent her to the vet to have her bites and cuts mended, her fleas ridden and be spade. And that is how I ended up with two dogs.
Sparkey has accepted his position in the family and now even curls up in my lap. Sally is as sweet as she can be. She still looks in every culvert drain she passes for what we think are her lost puppies. Sparkey and Sally are now full-fledged members of the Emmerich family.
I'm all right with it. I've made my peace. Every now and then when the dogs chew up something valuable or forget inside from outside, I run around the house screaming that we should just go ahead and buy a pig since we live in a pig sty. After a few minutes of ranting, I calm down and life is back to normal, although when they urinated on my bed I was close to really (really!) losing it.
Sparkey and Sally are full of energy and it's adorable to see how much my children love them. They both have identical big blacks spots on each side. Sally has floppy ears, Sparkey has pointy ears. Sally's tail droops, Sparkey's tail is a stub. Sally is an inch taller. They are a cute match and tumble and nip and roll and play together for hours. Lawrence adores his dogs and becomes disconsolate if they run away for a few minutes of adventure.
It's a strange world. We spend money on nice furniture, pretty rugs and cleaning services, then we open the doors and let the dogs in. But then I'm slowly learning to accept the ironies in life.
Wyatt Emmerich is president of Emmerich Newspapers.
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