TeacherScribe

If there was a contest for dumbest dog on earth, our Kozy would win it hands down.

We joke that she is our special needs dog. And that she is.

For example - most dogs would gobble up treats, right? Our Joker does. Joker and Kozy spend most of their time in the basement. As soon as they hear the door open, they know one of two things is going to happen. Either they get to go outside or I'm going to feed them.

A few mornings ago, just after we paid for Joker and Kozy to be washed and groomed, Kenzie and I were finishing our breakfast of strawberry Toaster Stroodles.

Kenzie left most of hers, so I decided to give it to the dogs. I tossed the remnants of mine to Joker, who promptly swallowed it whole.

I then grabbed Kenzie's, which she had just picked at really, and saw that the strawberry jelly was seeping out and the frosting was smeared all over.

What a treat.

I tossed it right toward Kozy. Did she snatch it and swallow it whole like Joker? Did she even snatch it and scamper downstairs to savor it in private?

No.

Instead, she turned her head and swivelled around so the frosty treat landed squarely on her fat ass!

The frosting and jelly was caught up in her thick - and newly washed - fur.

What an idiot! I mean what dog in its right mind turns away from a treat?

Kozy. That's who.

We should have known that Kozy was trouble from the first night.

See, we got Kozy from my sister. We were over there for a Matt's birthday. Their dog had just had puppies and they were going fast.

We saw a cute one cowering under the steps. We couldn't take it with us, but we promised to come back and get her a few days later.

Well, they must have had the morphodite puppy hidden in the shed or something and then grabbed the cute and lovable puppy we wanted and exchanged it with the morphodite one we received.

Everything seemed great . . . until KoKo wanted to sleep with Kozy that first night.

I awoke in the early morning to this scraping sound.

That's never a good sign.

I got up, thinking that maybe the puppy knew enough to scratch at the door because it had to pee.

I turned KoKo's light on to see Kozy sitting on her pillow and trying to - literally - chew her way through the wall. She had quite a start too. She must have been a good inch deep into the wall!

That was a sure sign of things to come.

KoKo still insisted on having Kozy sleep in her room.

But then the eyes started to strangely disappear on her stuffed animals.

And Kozy began to sleep downstairs in the basement.

Let's see. Here's a quick list of the highlights.

One time Dad was over and I had Kozy on the porch. Kristie and I were talking with Dad. I heard that scratching sound again, but figured Kozy was just scratching to get in. So I paid it no heed and we kept on visiting.

For some reason, Kristie got up to grab something from the porch.

That was when she noticed what the scratching had been.

I think Kristie's response says it all:

"Kurt, she chewed the God*&^% door!"

I think Dad's response says it all too:

"I'll get the gun."

Well, he didn't. But she did chew our beautifully ornate front door.

But we're used to it now, so it doesn't look as bad as it once did.

Then there was the time she began digging holes in the back yard.

For some reason, this had a strange effect on me. I'm a rather mellow chap. I don't get worked up about a lot of things. In fact, I rarely - if ever - raise my voice. But for some reason, seeing a two foot hole in the back yard (where it's hard enough to get grass to grow in the first place) caused me to fly into a rage.

It seems like every time I came home that summer Kozy had a new hole dug. And it was a good day if she only had one dug.

I tried spanking her. I tried scolding her. I tried lashing her with a belt. I tried rubbing her nose in it.

But none of those worked.

I tried burying her poop in the holes to keep her from digging in the same spots. No noticeable improvements.

Someone said to bury moth balls in the holes. So I tried that.

The next day I came home, I noticed the moth bolls dug up and scattered across the yard.

Dad said to pour pepper in dirt when I filled the holes back in.

All that did was season the damn dirt for her.

Someone said to use Tabascos.

No. Kozy likes Tabascos.

With my options running low (other than just paving the whole damn back yard, which was becoming a real certainty), I decided to just pour the Tabascos sauce down her throat.

I'd come home, see the hole, drag Kozy over to it, and pour the sauce down her throat or nose.

She'd be panting and rubbing her head in the grass and foaming at the mouth like a rabid beast while I filled in the hole.

And then she'd dig it up again.

I still haven't come up with a solution. I let her win.

Now she doesn't dig anymore.

Then there was one of the first times I played fetch with her in the snow.

Now, if Kozy can do one thing right, she can fetch.

So I thought since it was the first significant snow fall of the year that I'd find a stick and toss it around with Kozy.

The first few tosses went well.

Then Kozy got too excited and as she came bounding through the drifts she didn't compensate for the distance that it would take to slow her large mass before colliding with me.

And that's exactly what she did.

Of course, I was expecting a normal dog who would fetch the stick and simply return it to her master. So I was just standing there like an idiot when Kozy slid right into my shins. My legs flew bag and my head crashed into Kozy's rump and we tumbled into the snow.

Then there was the time Dad was over watching a football game. For some reason (you'd think we'd learn) we had Kozy in the house. She actually was sitting behind Dad and I in the back part of our living room.

I just happened to gaze over at Kozy when I saw her get up, turn her back to us, hunch up her hindquarters, raise her tail, and let out a steady plop - plop - plop of diarrhea.

Upon hearing the odd plop-plop-plop sound, Dad couldn't help but turn around.

That was when the stench hit him.

"Oh my!" he said.

I ran to get some paper towels, the Swiffer, and a garbage bag.

"Want me to get the gun?" Dad asked again.

Then there was the time Ed, Kristie's father, and his brother, Donnie, were visiting.

Again, for some stupid reason, we had Kozy upstairs in the living room.

All seemed fine until Ed and Donnie walked in.

For some reason, Kozy rolled on to her back, which was not all bad. She wagged her tail like she wanted to be petted, which was not all bad either.

But unfortunately she must have become so excited that she began to launch a gold stream of pee up into the air and right onto herself and anyone within close range.

And she wouldn't stop.

Despite our yelling, she just laid back and peed all over.

To Kozy's credit, she doesn't do so much of this anymore. In fact, she is almost a model dog. If it weren't for her inability to relax or sit still or cease jumping on people or eating the cat food or . . .