Jolene. Rebel Without a Tail.

Jolene, Mister, and I have returned home. Just in time for Jolene to transform into a charming but unrepentant hellion rebel. At 22 weeks, she is the dog equivalent of a ten-year-old who bullies ants. If anything drops to the floor, she grabs it and bolts. No amount of cajoling can get it back. If Mister pauses mid-chew to listen for feline intruders, Jolene takes his treat and slams the dog door behind her. When I call her name, she runs as fast and far away as she can. As if I don’t already know I’m not the boss of her. 

Then, I can’t get away from her. She follows me like a bush hog. I’m not sure if the puncture wounds are from her teeth or her toenails or if that even matters. She isn’t my first herding dog. An attack from the rear is nostalgic. But I know I can’t outrun her. Gone is the sweet sleepy pup, replaced by a tiny swaggering biker chick. I’ve had more affectionate goats.

Yes, this essay isn’t about horses either, unless you are one of those readers who understands it’s all the same.

A reader asked me a question (twice actually), and since she complimented me for wandering off the horse trail and writing about other topics, I will answer her. Like me, she is scaling down from horses to dogs with a plan to camp. For a minute, we both sound practical.

Her question: “How do you travel in hot weather as a single woman with a dog? Specifically, how do you take a bathroom break when they won’t let you bring your dog in with you and it is too hot to leave them in the car? With the A-frame camper, I can’t just nip into the camper to use the porta-potty, and I really need to stop every couple of hours.” Who doesn’t, I wonder.

Trigger warning: If you are sensitive about bodily functions, read no further. I will be careful because if I use certain words, it will attract the attention of online reptile brains. But I can tell right now this essay is going to go places I’d be smarter to avoid. Problem with me is that I have poor boundaries.

A brief history of my bathroom habits: we didn’t have indoor plumbing when I was little. We used the outhouse, and in the Minnesota winters, a chamber pot for overnight. It was acceptable to pee outside. If you think farmers come in from the barn to flush, you’re mistaken. I’m not sure city girls got the same education.

When I got older, I camped in national forests. No outhouses. When I started hauling my horse, we all peed in our trailers. Also got a round of applause upon exiting if anyone saw you go in. I’ve asked for the bathroom at barns where I was giving lessons and was told to use any stall I want. I always picked one with a horse in it.

Between mucking after dogs and horses and even some people, and generally living outside, some polite conventions have fallen away. Poop happens. There are more serious concerns in our world. Besides, I’m nearly impossible to embarrass now. 

Jolene would tell you her bathroom habits are none of your business. I’m fine mentioning her unmentionables. A bit of Swedish Vallhund trivia. There are five accepted types of tails, including no tail. Jolene has a little round boneless bum. She does, however, grow a few tiny hairs longer than the others where there should be a tail. In other words, she has a comb-over. Sometimes, there is a bit of residue that stays there. It’s the same color as her hair and doesn’t stink when it dries. Think of it as a salon product for thinning hair. I mention it only to confirm she isn’t the type to be sporting any pink sweaters.

We went into town to see the vet this week, where they give you treats for no reason. Jolene was immaculate, entering of her own free will and sitting politely on the scale to be weighed. Treats rained down. When it came time to take her temperature in her ear, her evil twin emerged and subdued the tech. The vet used a treat mat for the shot, so it was just a minor tussle with her. 

One of the worst mistakes we make with animals is confusing immaturity with disobedience. In Affirmative Training, we praise what we want to see and ignore the rest. Punishment tattoos the unwanted behavior on their minds. And Jolene is the kind who would wear a full-body tattoo if it didn’t mean shaving.

Then we went to the fancy dog food store. It’s a simple bait and switch scam. Jolene distracts the salespeople by wiggling and waggling, while Mister slides behind me. He pulls tendons and tracheas off the lowest shelves. He downed most of an $8 dried moose entrail of some kind before I could stop him. When I go to the counter to confess, Jolene steals what he’s stolen, so he’s forced to steal again.

At the counter, we total it up, the visible ones and those no longer in view. It would be funny if I were in on the scam, but I’m an innocent bystander. On top of the excellent and expensive dog food I buy, add on about $30 in partly chewed exotic animal parts. Mister would like you to know Jolene put him up to it.

Do not confuse any of the fun I have writing about my dogs with anything near a complaint. I have dogs because I like their worldview. It’s a choice- dog rules or human. I love their wild parts like I love my own. Howl at the moon. Zoom with joy. I did title a book Undomesticated Women, after all. We aren’t the ones to invite to high tea with those little dessert towers. We’d be disastrous at a baby shower. But come with us on a road trip. Have a beer. Bark it out. Break some rules and offend the old farts.

My question: I’ve heard women referred to as the squat-to-pee segment of society. In a world where men are only marginally housebroken at best, what standard should we hold ourselves to? 

Your question: I prefer rest stops, but lots of them don’t even have porta-potties. What are they thinking? Bottom line, it depends on the location. I stop in places no one stops for long. I might lock up, with my reflective silver sunshades up and a cordless fan blasting. Often, I leave the engine running and don’t close the door all the way. Sometimes, I find a deserted place where all of us can stretch our legs. 

Here’s the bottom line. Over 28k miles, and the only thing that ever scared me on the road was the weather. We might be fighting each other on the news, but one-on-one, people were unfailingly kind. We are a rebel breed, but we used to look out for each other. Most of us still do.

Finally, we have had animals at the center of our lives for so long that we forget how others see them. It’s a fact that those with criminal intent avoid dogs, in cars and homes. They pick easier targets.

I pull the cheapest RV on the road. My truck isn’t fancy. The most valuable things I travel with are my dogs, but most people see them as a deterrent. Mister has an enormous head, and through the window of a 3/4 ton pickup, he looks taller than he is. Jolene looks like a miniature Malinois. I hate putting those words together in case it gives some idiot a really bad idea. But her bark sounds like a car alarm. And then there’s me. I probably walk like a biker chick, too.

[Part 11. Read all the episodes of Jolene’s Story here.]

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