One tiny dog. Massive amounts of stupidity.

Friends, we may very well be in possession of the dumbest canine on the planet. (Is there some kind of booby prize for that? Like a giant silver chalice filled with poo, inscribed with our dog's name and the telephone number of the nearest emergency vet? (Attractive AND functional!) Or something?)

To be completely fair, I think Truman has a great deal of one kind of intelligence, just little to none of all the others. He has what modern psychology refers to as Emotional Intelligence, meaning he's quite adept at things like gauging the moods of his owner-humans, and when might be the best time turn on his patented Head Clown In The Idiot Parade act to make us all laugh, or the appropriate moment to lunge in for a sweet nibble on M's nose to make her squeal with glee. He's quite clearly figured out what we find amusing and irritating in his behavioral bag of tricks, and is skilled at manipulating those in various ways to his advantage. Generally speaking, he's funny and goofy and actively entertaining, which I suppose could be accurately described as Merits Of The Not Completely Stupid. But put his talent for being Mister Personality Plus aside? Dumb as a fucking rock.

Remember Truman's recent scuffle with our chain link fence? A scuffle which ended in him tearing out a decent-sized swath of his own hair in the process? Well one might think that such an experience would dissuade the average canine from engaging in that particular behavior again, what with the pain and hair loss and general unpleasantness involved. But then let's remember that Truman isn't an average canine, oh no. He's a moron.

Yesterday after Jamie returned home from work, he ran his hand over Truman's back and felt something wet. “Oh god, I hope it's not blood!” he gasped, jerking his hand away reflexively. And guess what it was! GUESS!

(sigh)

Another patch of hair gone, but this time with some blood. Or bloody ooze. Or perhaps our dog is making his own gravy? Anyway, it was some moist bodily nastiness that I was frankly in no mood to investigate and explore in fine detail. I washed, dried, and Bactined the crap out of the general area, all the while verbally admonishing the stupid dog for his stupidly stupid stupidity as he gazed up at me intently, looking deep into my eyes with an expression that said “Gee, I wonder if her eyeballs taste like snausages?”

Since then I've done a full perimeter sweep of our entire backyard, scouting out both sides of our fence for any obvious gaps or defects, with no luck. To be honest, I expected to find at least one partially dug Hogan's Heroes-type tunnel somewhere along the line -- a visible indicator of Truman's desperate, clawing attempts to flee what he apparently views as a death camp-like existence which he must escape at all costs. Like its freakin' Doggie Dachau over here or something. OH MY GOD YOU GUYS, MY DOG IS ROBERTO BENIGNI. (That makes almost too much sense, actually.)

So in the absence of an obvious solution (fix fence, fill in hole(s), all better!), there seems to be a number of possible next steps we might take, some being more tenable than others:

1. Never let Truman outside again, resign ourselves to living in fecal filth and putrescence
2. Wire our fence with low-voltage electricity, wait expectantly for the tell-tale scent of burnt hair -- SHAZAM!
3. Tie him to some sort of lead that prevents him from reaching the Fence Death Zone
4. Take him for several daily walks (YEAH, RIGHT)
5. Let him in the backyard but watch him like a hawk the entire time he's out there (YAWN)
6. Do nothing different and hope against hope that he catches a clue, grows a brain, or otherwise works this shit out on his own

Bet you can't guess which of those options I'm leaning toward. Here, I'll give you a hint: it's not numbers one through five.

I guess it's too late to return him, huh? Bring him back to the breeder: “Oh hai, this one is defective. Can I exchange him? Perhaps for something in a soft chocolate brown, AND WITH A GOTDAMN BRAIN?”

. . . . . . . . . .

PS: Please to enjoy my epic on hardwood floor care (no, for serious). Because I love.