My dog’s better than your dog,
My dog’s better than yours,
My dog’s better ‘cuz he eats Ken-L-Ration,
My dog’s better than yours.
Kris and I found Vegas at the Long Beach Animal Shelter not long after we met about 10 years ago. It was love at first sight. As soon as we approached his cage, Vegas (who had a different name then — something that escapes me now, but was a typical bad dog pound name like “Spunky” or “Max”) ran up to us, obviously happy to see us. Actually, it was more than that; Vegas is a master of the “I love you more than anything in the world” look, and from the first time I saw him I loved him back. If you met Vegas you’d know exactly what I mean. He does it with everyone. He’s a slut.
His name comes from the small V-shaped spot on the top of his head. Our naming requirements were simple: it had to start with a V, and Kris had to be able to yell it. After trying out “Vigilante” (too long to yell when a dog’s peeing on the carpet), “Viola” (too French), “Visa” (too yuppie), and numerous others, we landed on his current name. I’ll confess that part of my reason for liking it is that it comes out sounding like “Big Ass” when Kris says it.
We don’t know how old Vegas is; they made a guess at the pound that he was about a year old then, which would make him about 10 now. He’s still as healthy as ever, if maybe a bit slower. He gets out of bed a little more carefully, and throws his back out occasionally. He’s also epileptic, which is something I didn’t know dogs could have before we got him. He only gets a grand mal every several months, and they always pass within a few minutes. Sometimes I wonder if he fakes them for the treat he always gets afterward.
We’ve never trained him to do anything, and never had to. He was housebroken within the first few days, sat the first time we asked him to, and has never chewed anything he wasn’t supposed to. The trade-off is that he’s spoiled rotten. The center of the bed is his, and has been since the day we brought him home. He insists on a treat after anyone eats dinner, and always gets it. Any stuffed animal that enters the house is his, even if it was bought for a two-year-old niece who will never see it because you can’t give a kid a Mickey Mouse doll for Christmas after Mickey’s had his fluffy white synthetic guts ripped out.
Vegas also sings. At first it was just when the Advantage commercial with the singing dogs was on the TV, but then the bird learned that song made Vegas make loud noises, so now at random and often inconvenient times the parrot will start singing “If you don’t use Advantage scratch your ears!” Vegas, hearing his song, will then start howling. The two of them then feed each other in an orgy of bad singing that could shatter eardrums. It’s gotten even worse now that Maya, the dachshund, has decided it’s fun to join them.
So, that’s my boy. He’s sitting next to me as I type this, looking up a me with a look that’s asking me if I wouldn’t be much happier scratching his head instead of typing. He is, of course, right. He’s a smart kid.
