Test results.

For those of you consumed by the question Yes, but how is Quinn’s dog doing?, he sends his regards and wants you to know that he’s very happy. This beastie, found running down the street nine months ago, is the best dog I’ve ever had.

[The dog we had when I was growing up was better, what with being the dog I had growing up and all, but since she belonged to my parents and not me, my current dog squeaks by on a technicality.]

We finished Canine Good Citizenship training, and then we took our test. I’m not developing boundary issues with the dog; it was truly our test. Sure, he had to sit and not throw tantrums when left with a stranger for three minutes, but I had to leave the room and cross my fingers really hard for those three minutes. I had to create a new walking pace, just below a sprint, which made him appear to be in a heel position all the time. He had to be checked to for cleanliness, but did he feel the sting of being told his ears were filthy? No, he did not; he smiled and thumped his tailed pleasantly as a Canine Good Citizenship Judge lectured me for several minutes on the topic of Ear Cleaning. To hear this judge, I was feeding the dog things I found under park benches and setting his tail on fire for fun. When she tired herself out on the subject of my failures as a dog-parent, I whispered “So, we failed…?”

She answered grudgingly, “No, they are within the acceptable limits. But they really should be cleaner.”

Sweeping generalization: Some people are animal people because they lack any interpersonal skills whatsoever.

We got to Test Seven: Meeting a Strange Dog. Since the first day, I had known this was his and, by extension my, Achilles dewclaw. The dog cannot simply let another dog exist unmolested within smelling distance. They must be befriended, or eaten, or played with, or terrified into urination. Therefore, we trained, albeit in a desultory way. We walked only when we assumed we wouldn’t meet other dogs, so that any dog-meets had the casual spontaneity of a G-8 summit. If we did see a dog on our walk, we’d hide in a driveway behind trash cans until the threat passed. We arranged to have a rehearsal of the test with an Australian Shepherd, because the rumor was that the test dog was an Australian Shepherd.

We were very, very geeky.

Test Seven came, and we and our irredeemably dirty ears got in a “Sit” position. The judge went into the other room and walked back in with an Australian Shepherd at her side. She walked up to me and we shook hands, the dogs on the outside of each one of us. My sweet boy, sensing my nerves, had been bouncy and borderline sassy for the previous six tests, but somehow managed to calm himself for the meet n'greet. The judge and I shook hands and he stared off into space. I breathed out. The judge turned to leave and we – who had been in a perfect “Sit” – stood up to look more closely at the dog that was now leaving.

We failed. And we still had to do the final two tests, on the off chance that if we wanted to retake the test at some point in the future we’d get credit for those parts we did pass. On everything else, we were flawless. The judge released us, our teacher hugged us compassionately, and we were back in the car. I called Consort, home with Daughter awaiting the results, as I had determined we might be distracted by family members.

“Hello?”

“We aren’t Good Citizens,” I said glumly and to my acute embarrassment, felt myself choking up. Quinn, get some perspective. We weren’t refugees in Darfur; our house wasn’t in foreclosure; I was getting emotional over our inability to not sniff another dog’s butt? But the fact remained, we might have failed, but I dropped the ball. Had I carved out a little more time for training, he might have kept his head about him for another ten seconds. Ten seconds! Argh!

I composed myself as Consort told Daughter who sniffed a bit in disappointment herself. Consort got back on the phone.

“I’m sorry he didn’t pass,” Consort began kindly, “but if you don’t mind my saying, I’m kind of glad. Had he passed, you wanted to take him to visit children at hospitals, and I never did understand where you thought you would find the time to do it.”

“There’s that,” I mumbled, opening the bag of Gummy Bears I had bought myself as a post-test reward.

“You would have crammed it in to your schedule and you would have gotten tense and frantic-“

I was grateful he didn’t say “More tense and more frantic.”

“And you would have taken even less time for yourself.”

I chewed and shrugged. Since Consort couldn’t hear shrugging, I swallowed and said grudgingly, “Maybe it’s for the best.”

“Oh, definitely,” Consort said, “We have a much better-behaved dog than before. He may not be a Canine Good Citizen, but he’s our good dog.”

I looked over at the dog curled up in the passenger seat, the celebratory rawhide gripped between his front paws. The post-test exhaustion was such that he was worrying the chew-toy in his sleep. I patted his bottom. He was our very good dog.

“We’ll see you in a few minutes,” I said, preparing to drive us home.