LIVING WITH A DOG NAMED PEST

The Pest. My year-old Rottweiler whose name was actually Deuce the day that his owner relinquished the six-month old pup to rescue. Deuce? That name promises some pride and strength of character. The Pest doesn’t have any character at all.

The Pest has no manners, and doesn’t care who knows it. He blatantly jumps on the head of my other male Rottweiler and you can almost hear his devilish cackle. Coming down the stairs from my bedroom to the living room is almost an Olympic event for me as I dodge his feet flying back over front, long ears flapping like wind funnels. He barreled into my leg the other day, 100 pounds, 100 miles an hour coming down the stairs like he had someplace important to go. My entire calf jolted into a charley horse of mammoth proportions and I hobbled ridiculously the rest of the way down. I couldn’t find a stretch to pull the knot out, and you know if you’ve been delivered a charley-horse that’s all you can think about at the time. I dropped to the floor and grabbed onto my calf with both hand hoping to prod, ply, plead that muscle back in place.

Next to me on the floor, sat The Pest, bright eyed, a glint that held too much glee. Then he presented me with a big, sloppy kiss licking from my chin to eyebrow, but there was no apology in it. His posture was telling the truth about this dog. What he really was saying was “Let’s do that again!”