OUR TODDLER – A.K.A. FRANKENSTIEN’S MONSTER
At our daughter’s one year check up our pediatrician observed her shambling gait across the examining room floor and pronounced judgment: “Yes, she has the Frankenstein walk down to perfection. Perfectly normal.”
And as I studied Vivienne later that same day at our home, I had to agree. For though she is but 25 lbs and barely reaches my knee, she is our own tiny imitation of Dr. Frankenstein’s fabled monster; lurching in a stiff legged gait, arms outstretched as she pursues her innocent victim – in this case our long-suffering Akita, Kebu – from pillar to post.
I tell you, it is the reign of terror in our home; unearthly screeches shatter our peace as our daughter Vivienne hunts down her prey. And when she catches the dog she sinks her pudgy-fingered fists deep into the thick ruff of Kebu’s chest and then lets all her weight fall to the ground; imagine a lion on the African Savannah bringing down a water buffalo four times her size and you’ve got the picture.
While her parents frantically plead with her to; “Pet the down gently, Vivienne,” she pays no mind but, shrieking with joy, plunges her face into the fur an inch from the dog’s ear. My wife gets down on her knees and demonstrates to our daughter how to gently stroke the dog. In a twisted parody my ham-handed daughter then proceeds to clobber the dog with both fists.
All the while I am maintaining eye contact with Kebu and speaking to her in a soothing voice. “Good Kebu, good Kebu,” I say. “What a good dog you are.”
You’d think this commotion was stressful enough, but then, you don’t live with Vivienne Esperanza Finn; for my lovely daughter subsequently developed an unhealthy fascination with Kebu’s bung hole. Like a heat seeking missile Vivienne will enter our great room, search out the dog and follow around behind her, arm outstretched towards the Akita’s nether regions. And when the dog stops moving, my daughter plunges her fist into the thick fur surrounding Kebu’s butt while squealing with delight. The dog leaps as if touched with a live wire (wouldn’t’ you?) while I hurry over to hustle the tiny fiend away.
Then the dog gives me her most aggrieved expression, which says; “Why am I singled out for this indignity? We had a good thing going here before you brought the succubus into our home. And you, Pack Leader, how can you let this misconduct continue? I know my place in the pack, why can’t this revolting little creature know its place?”
And since I really don’t have an answer for Kebu I feel vaguely guilty. I trained her to be the perfect Social Therapy Dog; gentle, calm and obedient. And thank God that I did, because now her good nature is being put to the test.
When Vivienne is not busy trying to embed her hand in Kebu’s rectum her next favorite pastime is stealing Kebu’s toys. Any plaything Kebu takes an interest in, well, that is just the thing that Vivienne suddenly decides she must have; and so she promptly rushes over on her fat little legs and snatches the toy from the dog’s mouth.
And then shoves it in her own mouth.
Our daughter has also discovered a fevered fascination with any food that has come into contact with Kebu’s mouth. I have to feed treats to the dog in private, because if Vivienne is present she will immediately grab the food right out of the dog’s mouth and, you guessed it, thrust it promptly into her own mouth. When an adult asks her to give it back to Kebu, she proceeds to first plunge it into the dog’s mouth, then back into her own, back and forth, back and forth; sort of like Indian Giving, only with sharp teeth to add the element of imminent danger to the proceedings.
Watching this travesty, I think; if I were a dog that would probably infuriate me. And once again I thank my lucky stars for this somewhat aloof and essentially cautious dog; for never once has she snapped, growled or barked at the diminutive monster tormenting her.
And then I take a moment to thank the Japanese Samurai centuries past who first domesticated this breed and taught it to guard the home and children. However they did it, they inculcated a tolerance in this breed that nearly defies comprehension.
My reverie is interrupted by a clatter from the kitchen and I turn to see the dog gazing with mute forbearance at my daughter, who is down on all fours and has her face buried in the dog’s food dish; where snuffling sounds indicate that, yes indeed, she is eating the dog’s food.
Who could ask for more?