Mrs. Raangh
The first few weeks with the Weege were easy. She was a sweet little thing, helpless and well meaning. It was all about cleaning up after accidents that she had no control over.
At the age of four months, however, she began to be intermittently possessed by an evil spirit whom we know only as "Mrs. Raangh." The name is nasal and cannot be pronounced without an unattractive sneering of the lips.
Mrs. R. R. Raangh has a rap sheet as long as your arm. She spends more time in the slammer than she does outside. She is defiant, demanding and loud. When Mrs. Raangh comes around, there is nothing for it but to lock her up at once.
At first, I admit we laughed at her (as we shut her in the crate), but this made her bold. She showed up on the grooming table. Even climbed into bed with us once or twice.
Then one night as we were heading out to dog school, Mrs. Raangh must have hopped in the car door at the last minute, just as I was closing it, because she showed up in class.
It was a Wednesday, and Craig was going to handle Weegie in her first conformation class. This is where you learn how to show a dog in the breed ring. Weegie was the youngest and smallest dog in a class of about a dozen (grown-up) dogs and (experienced) handlers.
Craig slipped a brand-new show lead over Weegie's head, lined up, and tried to follow Sonny's instructions for stacking his dog. To his horror, he realized that it was not little Weegie at his side, but the evil Mrs. Raangh.
Craig stuck it out. People rolled their eyes, and Sonny thought better of actually examining Mrs. Raangh's snapping mouth. Everyone politely overlooked the almost continuous yapping, twisting and struggling against Craig's every attempt to position her.
"Raaaaaangh," said the nasty little white dog. I sat on the sidelines with my eyes closed.
This is why they say you can't laugh off anything a puppy does until you have imagined what it would be like if the same prank were blown out of all proportion and repeated in public. You have to be humorless. No bite, no sass. It's not funny.
The next night, in obedience, Weegie threw a tantrum when I tried to make her do a finish. I picked her up by the ruff on the sides of her neck and yelled NO in her face. I looked up at Margaret, who shrugged and said, “When did she get to be such a brat?”
Overnight, I told her. I confessed that we'd been laughing at her when she fussed like that.
Margaret shook her head. "Well, stop," she said.
So we told Mrs. Raangh not to come around anymore. Sweet Weegie doesn't even seem to miss her. Craig hasn’t been back to conformation class, and I don’t blame him. That class is a little too much for both of them right now.
Meanwhile, we're doing great in obedience. She doesn't understand the commands yet (let alone the concept of obeying them), but I guide her through the exercises, and she does them really well. I couldn’t be happier with her.
Weegie contemplates the possibilities for a freshly dug flowerbed