An 'Alice In Wonderland" look into the mind of my furry friend, Ben.

1. An ‘Alice In Wonderland’ Rottweiler?
Rotties Thrive On Impossible Things!
By Tom Lloyd (USA)
Tom Lloyd spent most of the past few decades writing for
newspapers and magazines in the mid-Atlantic region. He and his
five-year-old rescue Rottweiler have a symbiotic relationship. Tom
writes and Ben deals with critics.
If your Rottweiler is anything like my Rottweiler, you might
just want to dust off that crackled copy of Lewis Carroll’s
‘Alice in Wonderland’ on the bookshelf and take a read.
Everything I needed to know about my Rottie, I found in the
pages of Carroll’s classic children’s book.
Sure, you can spend a fortune trying to find out what makes
your dog tick. Nowadays, there are dog psychology centers,
dog whisperers, dog trainers, dog behaviorists and a host of
other doggie do-gooders out there and they are all eager to
take your money. Check your mailbox. Click your way
through your cable TV lineup. There are more ways to
spend more money learning about what your dog is thinking
than you can shake a stick at. Unfortunately, none of them
will bring that stick back to you. Not surprisingly, none of
those so-called doggie experts will bring your cash back to
you, either.
That’s why I suggest re-reading “Alice.” You see, my
beloved beastie, Ben does exactly what the white queen
advised Alice to do. He tries to believe at least six
impossible things before breakfast. That pretty much
explains all of his behavior.
For example, Ben believes he can single-handedly save the
world from squirrels.
Now, most of us probably don’t see squirrels as much of a
threat, but it’s clear from every early morning dog park run that
Ben does.
He is convinced he can leap 30 or 40 feet into the air and
snatch squirrels from the treetops. History and physics don’t
back up this belief insofar as he has yet to elevate his 120-
pound frame much more than four or five feet off the ground,
but his faith makes him keep trying.
He also believes he can topple tall oaks and get to the
squirrels he can’t snag in mid-air by standing on his hind legs
and pushing on the tree trunks with his front paws. If you’re
keeping score, so far, the oaks are winning this one by a
margin of 10,978 to 0. Still, Ben believes. It’s a matter of faith.
Asking him to change is like asking a creationist Baptist
minister here in the Bible belt to accept evolution as a fact: it
ain’t gonna happen.
(On the bright side, I don’t have to pay those bushy-tailed fur
balls a dime and yet they provide Ben with more exercise in a
single morning than a year’s worth of Richard Simmons videos
could deliver.)
Away from the dog park, Ben also he believes, like Alice, that
there is a potion that can make him shrink. I know this because
he will frequently attempt to squeeze himself into spaces so
small that even a dormouse would find them claustrophobic.
He also believes, correctly as it turns out, that eating other
things will make him big again. For Carroll’s Alice, it was cake.
For Ben, it’s peanuts. He will contort his whole body and
scrunch himself down so low that he’d win any limbo contest
on the planet just to get underneath the coffee table and snag
a single fallen nut.
As soon as he gulps down his stray snack, however, he is
instantly transformed back to his normal size and when he
stands up to walk away, the coffee table frequently walks away
with him.
That’s three impossible things down and three more yet to
come and breakfast is still an easy two hours away.
Simply put, believing in impossible things is obviously what
motivates my Rottweiler each and every day and that’s just
fine by me.
He may never actually catch a squirrel, succeed in squeezing
into all the places he tries to fit into or stop inadvertently re-
arranging the living room furniture as he hunts for peanuts, but
life with him is never dull. It just gets, as Alice used to say,
“curiouser and curiouser.”
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