Jolene’s Teen Angst and Roller Derby Bravado

Saints preserve us. This weekend, Jolene is having her friend, Tachi, sleep over. I’ll believe the sleep part when I get some. They have been running out the dog door, letting it slam-slam behind them. Then barreling back through in a gray cloud of leaves and dirt with another double slam. Like a pair of baby roller derby queens, using every part of their bodies to elbow and bump the other. The two of them have spiked their full bodies with hair product, and by that I mean each other’s spit. 

Mister wants you to know none of this was his idea. He barked at them as they zoomed and bitey-faced and tugged from early afternoon until dark. But then, realizing he had not barked one ounce of sense into either of them, he gave up. The girls are relentless, swearing they will stay up all night, puppy-drunk on play. Mister and I exchange the look for the Vallhund-reth time.

Jolene would be the first to say that she isn’t a puppy. She is a very big girl, and Mister, who is a smart aleck, is the problem. She is athletic, springing high in the air to land effortlessly on my lap. With no warning and at breakneck speed. My neck, not hers. Mister believes my lap should be off limits to girl dogs. We have a tradition; he jumps as he can, and I boost him the rest of the way. It’s a two-part process, engine and caboose. Mister and I both grunt. Jolene mocks us by flying through the air without a sound. 

The next moment, Jolene is chewing a cord. Sometimes a charging cord but the electrical ones are better. How had she not noticed them before? She clears surfaces way too high for her to reach. Notes, pens, cups — her loot just outside the back door. She was not like this when she was younger. The hundreds of toys littering every inch of the house and the backyard looking like there was a recent heavy metal concert, were enough for her.

Mister wonders if we might take another Undomesticated Women road trip. Without her. He deadpans the request, but I know he can’t sleep without her tailless little butt pressed into his belly. I smile at our gluttonous luck to have such a wild thing in our lives. 

It’s easy to forget, looking at her today, how tiny she was when she was born. She looked like a baby of one of her littermates. That was how we first saw her. Almost too small to survive. I didn’t put it into words, but I knew what that meant. It wasn’t that she might need our help. It was that she would be Tougher Than the Rest. She would be our match.

Mister would like you to know that the actual issue is the forced exercise program. It’s unfair and exhausting, and he didn’t sign up for it. More than a dog at a certain station in life should tolerate. I am not the drill sergeant, but he complains to me since Jolene won’t listen. And I noticed a waist come into view on Mr. Sausage. He likes me to call him that. Mister will have you know not everyone thinks skin and bones is attractive. But this week, the vet complimented him on losing SEVEN! POUNDS! since his last checkup. He was disconsolate. He thinks his ears look too big now.

Jolene is at the age where she’d steal cigarettes out of my purse if I smoked. She probably sneaks out at night. It’s obvious she uses my debit card. Mister says he knows nothing about it. I’m not sure I believe him. And now this slumber party. After months of puppy antics, just when a break would be nice, she has upped the game, sometimes dangerously. Mister is under my desk, pleading with me to do something. Anything. I’m no saint, I tell him. I could impatiently demand order, but I know her secrets as well as I know my own. 

Jolene isn’t really the tough girl she pretends to be. She has moments of insecurity. Someone might touch her head in a way that frightens her. Or accidentally bump her, and she keeps a distrustful distance until I can coax her back. She might body-slam herself into my lap because something startled her or hurt her feelings.

Sometimes, she rolls belly up when she meets new dogs. Folks frown and call it submission. That word isn’t quite right; it oversimplifies the situation. Calming signals are more nuanced than that. She’s reminding them that she’s just a puppy. Her body looks more mature, and she might have a swagger, but that’s the game. She isn’t intimidated, and she is the farthest thing from compliant or meek. She’s just introducing herself; letting others know she’s no threat. Mister says she’s lulling the stranger into a false sense of security because a few minutes later, she’s pushing a tug toy in their face and trying to get the other dog into trouble. With no regrets, no apologies, he adds. Mister is right as usual.

Like young horses, like any youngster, she is pretending to have confidence. It’s false bravado in a game, but if we let it fit, it can become real. If they are punished and corrected and forced into actual submission to humans, anxiety can become their default. In so many ways, this is the most important age to acknowledge her. When she needs an antidote to adolescent confusion the very most. 

It’s just like with horses; people are dead set on thinking there’s an alpha defining herd hierarchy in the way we have a pecking order in a corporate business. That alpha tripe has been debunked for ages. When will we learn that the only animals with a dominance hierarchy are humans? It’s hard to believe because we’ve met plenty of dogs who have been so dominated by their owners that they cringe. And plenty of shut-down horses, terrified of humans and trying to get along. That was never who they were, but a result of living with us. It’s the actual definition of anthropomorphizing. We correct them into our worst image because it’s easier than adapting to them.

Wouldn’t it have been better if we had learned their language in the first place? These socially complex species, who live in groups, do bicker over resources. But they know there is safety in numbers. Are dogs more humane than we are? I don’t see our hierarchy doing us many favors. If I had my way, the high school girls would be suited up in shoulder pads and cleats, learning to speak out and stand their ground, and boys would be slaves to fashion.

Mister is giving me the look now. Anna’s ranting again.

So, we will double down with kindness, letting Jolene know she’s a good girl now most of all. We trade a piece of kibble to Jolene for a brand new pair of socks, purchased because winter is coming. Quite a few socks have gone missing over the summer.

If you want an animal to be in your world, you must first settle with them in their world. Not as a visitor but truly switch sides. Instead of demanding they fit into our lives, it’s more about creating a Jolene-shaped place in our lives to fit her unique and wild self.