Jolene’s Bathroom Habits

It was a bathroom sort of week here, in that way that the entire universe can fit in a small space sometimes. And Jolene ran the gamut of emotions about it. She is almost nine months old and a very big girl with very big feelings. 

It used to be that a small plush toy would be good company for a few hours. Jolene fell asleep chewing it and took it up again as soon as she woke. Now, nothing holds her attention for more than thirty seconds. Unless it’s something that Mister has and she wants. Then she barks at me about the injustice, the horrible inequity, and the sad loneliness of being herself. Surviving only on the constant attention of Mister and me.

He gives me the eyes that say, give her anything. Make her stop. Deep in the same exhaustion, I considered closing the bathroom door for a few moments of sanity. But what if Jolene pulled the bathroom door off its hinges to get in? 

Sure, we have done some reworking of the bathroom since Jolene moved in. Our house is a collector’s dream  — that rare find with only one small bathroom. We moved the toilet paper up to eye level, so we have to tilt and stretch uncomfortably to reach it. We keep the bathmat on the real toilet paper holder, because anything on the floor longer than five seconds is hers. It’s smart to play defense when it comes to the bathroom.

This week, Jolene finally found the water in the toilet. She always had an idea it was close, of course. She peeks at me while I the shower and waits to dry my ankles and feet for me. From Jolene’s height, the toilet didn’t seem that interesting. Now she is tall enough to stand up and look in. Then she hopped up and down to get a closer look-see.

People get offended, but I see why dogs might enjoy drinking from toilets, since the porcelain is cool and the water might be fresher than what’s in their bowl. Might be a problem if you don’t flush your toilet. We do. Anyway, she frequently doesn’t have water in the house because she dumped her water bowl to carry it to the backyard. When you see it from her perspective, the attraction is obvious.

Only better if I’m in the bathroom, too. The toilet is a little lower than other chairs. I sit there, sometimes for a while. She thinks it’s not like I’m not doing anything. Not really. Why wouldn’t I want company at a time so convienient for sweet talk and scratches?

But what is common sense to a dog is lost on humans, who get so upset by bodily functions that they hide in a special room. These things do not embarrass other animals. 

It’s blog night. The night I don’t mind being the unhearing one. Or as I like to think of it, the quiet-advantaged one. I take the hearing aids out early and put the world on mute. My ear canals, who have fond memories of not being crammed tight with plastic, soften with pleasure. I want to think I’m adjusting well to my new hearing loss, but then late at night I worry I won’t hear an intruder. And if the intruder isn’t that danged feral barn cat, neither will Mister. 

Mid-afternoon, Jolene comes up behind my office chair. It’s too early, I tell her. Four o’clock is dinner time. She uses her nose as a battering ram. Soon it’s wedged between my arm and torso, and she plants tiny duck bites in the virgin skin on the underside of my upper arm. That soft, pale, Jell-O-like part. It must be how a relatively small dog moves cattle. I take a deep breath, and she stops.

Here is the part that’s the same with horses. When some small thing happens, we think it will snowball, become a disaster, with the worst outcome. We catastrophize, but in the time it takes to exhale, the drama can pass. It’s only a problem if we make it a problem. People congratulate me on my patience in training a puppy and in rehabbing horses. I don’t think the question is patience so much as self-control. Of course, I’m frustrated. At times, I want to scream, and the instinct to fight back is right there.

The first step in Affirmative Training is always telling myself to shut up. You can be impatient as long as you keep your mouth shut about it. You can even panic as long as you don’t let it show. Animals are not psychic. They just have very keen senses. They read our bodies. Our faces are IMAX screens. 

Here’s where I’m lucky. There is a difference between not hearing and not listening. I’m good at listening with my eyes. Horses taught me to control my body. Speaking in calming signals is a universal language for anyone to use. If only we can calm ourselves first.

That’s when the plan forms. If Jolene likes the bathroom so much, maybe it’s time for baby’s first bath. It will be in the shower to limit the mess. I take a slip lead off the hook and hide it in the bathroom. I wait until the next day and keep my routine. Acting as normal as possible, I pull an extra towel for Jolene. Mister knows what’s coming and slips outside. And when she follows me into the bathroom, I slowly close the door.

Jolene’s survival instinct is so pure. She knows something is up. I slip the lead on, and she immediately turns bronco, rearing and flipping sideways. Okay, more like a rank rodeo bull. I am equal to the task. A naked gray mare with less confidence might hesitate, but I have to get us to the good part.

Jolene is mad. This is our first fight, and I have the size advantage. As she flailed, I slowly brought the spray over. The water was lukewarm, so I was chilled already. She hates me, but she isn’t afraid. I persist without scolding or any visible emotion, doubling over with some shampoo in my hand. As I started massaging it into her fur, and she melts like she always does. When she was little, I used to purposefully stroke her with soft hands as she was waking and as she was dozing off, wanting her to know the best part of having her own human.

But I have betrayed her. Or not, the rinsing part was good. She can’t decide. Now Mister is barking a slow, plaintive dirge on the other side of the door. He doesn’t want to come in. Then I towel her off, which isn’t quite a tug game, but it might be. She doesn’t know what to feel. I’m sitting on the toilet lid, looking at her. Wordlessly waiting for her to process this confusing experience.

Jolene is always the first to forgive. She learned it from me and Mister. She lifts her front feet politely to my leg. We have an agreement whenever she asks for my attention, I give it to her. How long will I do this? Every day forever. Then I make my fingers into a soft claw and comb from her tailless rump to her ears, my fingernails separating lines in her hair. She curls over my arm, her little head feels like a ten-pound bag of flour. A dog hug.

It’s no secret that I like cantankerous dogs. I like donkeys. I like goats. And by the way, I’ve never been that well-behaved myself. It would be hypocritical to judge.

Mister is a dog with social conscience, earnest and pensive. Jolene shouts to the heavens with wild liberty and dares us to jump. I’m the unhearing one who can type and reach the food. We make a dogpile. Jolene is our glue. Gorilla glue.