Ok, He’s Man’s Best Friend Despite My Worst Intentions

I didn’t start out 1996 to be a dog owner. But that’s how it turned out after my wife and kids mutinied. They’d known for some time that my bark is worse than my bite.

In a moment of weakness 18 months ago, I relaxed my longstanding no-pets policy so my daughter could have a fish. And voila, the three mutineers brought back a dog from Duncan’s Pet Shop - a blue heeler-Australian shepherd cross. Maybe they thought I said “dogfish.”

The kids, of course, promised they’d feed the dog. And play with it. And clean up after it. Blah, blah, blah. I knew those hollow promises would be good for two to three weeks, tops. I knew I would feed and water the unwanted pet - and scoop poop. I also knew the mutt would tear up my garden and yard. It’d shed in my house. And it’d cost me $25 a pop in kennel fees every time we spent a weekend away.

I complained bitterly.

The mutineers smiled and named him Cosmo - after the “Seinfeld” character. I thought I was being a good sport when I suggested that the dog’s name be spelled with a strong “K.” The children nodded and spelled it with a “C.”

As predicted, Cosmo tore up my lawn and garden, shed black and white hair all over the living room and cost more than he was worth. I cussed him at times, which isn’t a proper thing for a former Baptist deacon to do. He specialized in digging out of the yard. I wanted to kill him the day he appeared at the back door with my prize eggplant in his mouth.

Still, I empathized when my wife had him fixed at 3 months. He never had the opportunity to get better acquainted with the shorthair next door. Besides, the satisfied grin on my wife’s face the day she took Cosmo to the vet reminded me of another time - of another painful surgery.

I still don’t like dogs, although I admit Cosmo - just like my 18-year-old - can be charming after committing a misdeed. I simply put up with the mutt. If I walk him daily, play soccer with him in the back yard and get down on all fours in the living room to rub his belly, well, that’s just something a dog owner is supposed to do.

And don’t read anything into the fact that, while walking Cosmo two weeks ago, I threw myself between him and an attacking dog. My wife thought it meant that I cared for the cur. Nothing could be further from the truth.

He’s my cross to bear. And I hope to bear that cross for a long, long time.

, DataTimes MEMO: D.F. Oliveria’s “Hot Potatoes” runs Tuesdays and Thursdays. You can comment on the items by calling (800) 344-6718 or (208) 765-7125, or by sending e-mail to daveo@spokesman.com.