Dog Whispering in Reverse

Several years ago, I pulled into my driveway to find approximately twenty pairs of my husband’s underwear in the front yard. The dachshunds were playing tug-of-war with a pair and engaging in what came to be known as the Great Doggy-style Tighty-whitey Orgy. I asked them what the hell they were doing with the scattered skivvies, but being dogs, they only wagged their tails.

After I found out my husband was cheating on me, this is what I imagined they were trying to say to me that day:

Hey, girl, you know we love you. You’re the one who actually feeds us and takes the time to learn that, although we eat anything, our absolute favorite food on the planet is fried eggs. You’re a good gal, and you really don’t deserve all the crap this dude is pulling behind your back. That condom you found in his pocket last week? He didn’t buy it as a joke to encourage his friend to ask the pretty girl at the bar out. We heard him tell you that and couldn’t believe you bought it. But hell, we’re just dogs, and we can’t just come out and say, “You’re husband’s cheating on you.” So maybe if we literally air his dirty laundry in the front yard, you’ll catch the metaphor.

But they should have known I wouldn’t – or couldn’t – hear their message. After all, they’d tried to warn me about the affair before it ever started. We pulled up in our driveway one afternoon to find that they had intercepted the FedEx guy and shredded an employment contract offering my husband a heinous amount of money. The company was in Nashville, and he would be commuting during the week. He actually had to call the company and tell his prospective boss that the dogs ate his homework. Interestingly, he took the job, and that’s where the affair began.

We tried to warn you. We sniffed trouble the minute that FedEx guy stepped out of the truck. Shredding the papers was Laverne’s idea. She was trying to save you a lot of trouble, but instead we got in a heap of trouble. Since it cost us several mornings of fried eggs, we decided to open the package of sweet potato pancake mix when it arrived. It was delicious, but the bloating? You might have warned us we would be wobbling for a week.

My husband confessed that first affair, and I forgave him for several different reasons, the most important being the fact we had three children. But three years later, I should have known he was cheating again. Laverne and Shirley tried to warn me this time by chewing up their bed.

Again, it’s a metaphor, dumbass. We’ve torn up our bed, knowing you’ll say, “Well, you dumb dogs, you’ve made your bed, and now you’ll have to lie in it. Oh wait, there’s no bed for you to lie in because you’ve torn it up!” Don’t you get it? Your cheating husband has torn up your marriage bed, and you need to let him feel the consequences of the mess he’s made. He needs to sleep on the cold, hard concrete until he straightens up.

I filed for divorce. And one might think that would be the end of the subliminal dachshund messages. But I pulled up in my driveway one day after a weekend trip to find an assortment of my shoes, the kids’ belongings, and about 70 yards of toilet paper scattered over the front lawn.

It could only be the dachshunds.

In my haste to get to the airport on time, I’d failed to make sure the door from the house out to the garage was pulled tightly closed. Since we were only going to be gone overnight, I’d left the dachshunds with plenty of food and water and left the garage door open by about six inches, enough for them to squeeze under to get into the garage to sleep at night.

While the kids and I were gone, they figured out the door wasn’t completely closed, and they managed to push it open. Then they proceeded to have a party while their parent was away.

They had gone in my closet and pulled out one shoe from every pair. Some were in the living room, and some were in the laundry room. The most expensive ones, however, were chewed just enough to render them useless to me, and they were lying on the front lawn.

They had found Lauren’s candy stash and had opened ten or twelve red hot fireballs and then licked them on the white carpet. Red dye dotted the carpet in every bedroom.

They’d had great fun unrolling every toilet paper roll in every bathroom and dragging it through the house and out to the front yard. It looked like we had actually been rolled by a group of midgets who couldn’t reach the trees.

They found the 20-pound bag of dog food in the pantry and dragged it out of the house and into the yard, leaving a trail of dog food through the kitchen and laundry room. Ants were enjoying the trail of food, and I can imagine how many neighborhood dogs feasted in our yard while I was gone.

And of course there were piles of dog poop all over the house.

Hey, don’t be too mad! It’s another metaphor. Yeah, we know the cheating husband is gone. We’re just giving you a (short) leg up on the fact that your kids are almost teenagers. This kind of party could happen while you're away. Consider yourself warned.

First Lady of Rehab

What do politicians and addicts have in common?

The easiest answer is that with both, you know they’re lying if their lips are moving.

Another quirk the two share is the ability to blame everyone else for their mistakes, their favorite target often being the people they’ve screwed.

Finally, both subsets of the larger group affectionately titled “Vile Human Beings” can claim my ex-husband as a member. While he was in rehab, he was elected Mayor.

As in Mayor of Rehab. Not exactly something you’d want on your resume, I wouldn’t think, but as a politician he can probably twist it into something useful. “Ran for and won political office in small Arizona community” perhaps. It could get him added to some “Who’s Who” list anyway.

Yes, for $35,000, you, too, can spend thirty days in the desert conning a counselor into believing you’re the best thing since lubricated condoms. Don’t ask me why, but for some reason, the folks out there in Arizona thought it helpful to both the staff and the inmates to have a go-between, someone who could speak for the entire community of addicts. And some staff sucker nominated him.

I’m pretty sure that up until that time, the official duties of the Mayor of Rehab had primarily been more symbolic in nature – making proclamations like “We’re all Perfect in our Imperfections!” to the cheers of the entire cafeteria during Thursday dinner; kissing the babies who come to see their drug-addled mommies on visitation Sundays; and of course, being presented the key to the commune. But when my husband was voted Mayor, he took that job seriously. He actually went to work for his peers.

For example, the center has Movie Night once a week. The movies must be pre-approved and, ideally, affirm the values of the rehab center. Think Clean and Sober with Michael Keaton or When a Man Loves a Woman with Meg Ryan. No sex, as it might stimulate the sex addicts. No movie with anorexic actresses, as that might stress the patients with eating disorders. No alcohol, except if it is portrayed in a “this is poison, it will kill you” light. No violence; you never know what the rage-aholics will do. In other words, Movie Night choices are pretty much limited to those I’ve already mentioned plus Mulan (strong feminine character who stands up for herself while honoring her ancestors – good rehab material) and Beethoven (pets are healing, but remember that the only live thing an addict should be responsible for the first year after treatment is a plant).

Obviously looking out for his constituents, the Mayor decided that the television used for Movie Night was pitifully small. So he called his parents and directed them to ship his $9,000 video projector to Arizona for the viewing pleasure of all the addicts. And that’s not all.

He didn’t like the movie choices either. So his parents sent some movies along with the projector. The movies were immediately confiscated because they did not reflect the values of the treatment facility. He called me to complain.

“But you’re only there a few more days,” I said, after hearing the story. “Just let it go.”

“I’m not letting it go. They can’t ban my movies because of language because they allow bad language in the group sessions. They believe it’s a way of expressing your true feelings. My movies don’t have any graphic sex, no nudity, and hell, people in here had better get used to seeing a drink without needing to have one. That’s the real world. I’m so sick of the hypocritical bullshit in the place, and I’m about to expose it.”

Lawyerlike, he took his case all the way to the top. And when the man who owns and directs the treatment facility told him no, he took his case to the inmates. They could stage an uprising or a sit-in like the center had never seen before. They could boycott breakfast or pull a Gandhi, refusing to eat until they were allowed to watch what they wanted (the eating disorder patients could be counted on for this part of the demonstration). In fact, it wasn’t jail; anyone could leave at any time. They could all just up and walk out. Goddammit, they were the customers, and they were right!

That’s basically what he told the director of the treatment center where he was paying $35,000 to be treated for addiction – that he was the customer, and he was right, and if they didn’t let him watch the movie he wanted to watch, then he would leave.

Incredibly, the center gave in, and he got his way.

Even more amazing is that it became his rehab story. In the weeks after he got home, as friends and family welcomed him back, hoping he was intent on being a loving husband and father, what did he report about his time in Arizona? The Movie Night Story. He didn’t talk about how he faced the horror of losing his family and decided to end his affair. He didn’t talk about realizing that staying out all night drinking was not only bad for his health but also devastating to a wife who loved him and sat up all night fearful he wouldn’t make it back.

I, for one, could totally understand the center’s insistence that The Godfather was inappropriate viewing material for the rehabilitation of alcoholics, sex addicts, and gamblers. Hell, that director probably capitulated because he was terrified he’d wake up to find the decapitated head of his cat Fluffy in bed with him the next morning. Reymondo, the patient who was a high-ranking Central American diplomat had some pretty good connections, after all.

I sat listening to him tell the story over and over, and I began to wonder if that was all that he took away from his month in rehab.

If so, I can think of about 267 better ways to spend $35,000. For $35,000, I could buy a fishing lure business on Ebay or a custom portrait of the children by the same artist who painted Jimmy Carter’s presidential portrait, or, hell, half a Hummer. Ten years from now, I’d conceivably still have any of those things. But I’ve got a bad feeling that he’s got nothing to show for that $35,000. He would have been better off spending that money on campaign pencils – “Dick for Mayor of Rehab.” Pencils last a long, long time.

Given that he kept his campaign promises and enjoyed a high popularity rating in his tenure as Mayor, I’m sure he would have been elected to a second term if he’d chosen to extend his time at the facility. Looking back, that probably would have been good for everyone.