I know I’ve mentioned my dog Simba before, but I don’t think I’ve ever gone into detail about how quirky he is. I am mildly obsessed with this wiley creature, but I would definitely not say he’s a good dog.
I’ve realized there are two kinds of dogs: 1. The kind that lives in people-world and though it knows it’s different, really it’s just a human with four legs and a lot of hair. This kind of dog likes to lean on you, needs attention and has a whole array of identifiable emotions.
Then there is dog option 2. the African street dog. This one is a lot more independent, savvy, usually likes friendly attention from humans but has its entirely own social network away from us. This kind of dog wants a good scratch behind the ear but is not needy or particularly loyal.
Simba fits somewhere inbetween category 1 and 2. Yes he is well fed, sleeps inside, and will guard the house and compound yet he is definitely not a lap dog. He knows his name but only comes when he wants to, is cautiously loving, and certainly moody. Also, he’s eerily intuitive about when it’s bath-time.
Yesterday was bath-time. Because I know he understands the word, I avoid saying it the day before and I even avoid trying to think about the hose and where his special flea shampoo might be stored away. Of course, unless it’s a total spontaneous event some planning has to go into it, starting off with catching him.
I swear this dog is a mind reader.
Somehow he always knows what’s on the agenda and won’t even let me come near to pet or feed him. He gets all jumpy and runs away like I’m the evil vetrinarian who castrated him.
All day long I tried to swoon him over with cheese and big bowls of food – no luck. I thought I had him when I brought out the walking leash, but he caught on real fast and zipped away. Finally the sun set and it was too late. Only when I had totally given up on the idea completely, Simba came strolling casually inside, wagging his tail, knowing he won that battle.
Bad. Smelly. Puppy.