We finally got a dog.  A big, dangerous dog.  A Doberman.

She’s a great watchdog.  To protect us from people, she growls deep in her throat, racing at top speed down the steps, across the yard and to the gate.  She then lurches at the fence, barking furiously, with her hackles standing all on end. 

That’s one way she takes care of us.  Another way is to hide behind the grape arbor in the front yard until someone “suspicious” comes near.  Then she jumps at them out of the silence, barking and snarling.

Yes, indeed, Emily is a great watchdog.  It’s too bad that her favorite people to frighten are small children and little old ladies.  Oh, she’ll go after big, strong men, too—if they will amuse her by jumping high into the air, like kids and the elderly do. 

See, I’ve discovered Emily’s secret. 

She pretends to be protecting us, her family, but she isn’t.  Not really.  I’ve watched her through the dining room window.  She’ll be outside, lolling around in the sun, when she’ll see an old lady coming toward our house.  She quickly stations herself behind the grapevine, where no one from the street can see her.  She puts her head down.  Then she waits.  And this dog has the patience of Job.  She doesn’t move a muscle, not even to scratch, because it might make a noise.  When the moment is perfect—meaning it’s so quiet, you can hear your own heart beating—Emily JUMPS out from behind the grapevine, barking as loudly as she can. 

I have a feeling she is single-handedly keeping the adult diaper companies in business.

I’ve told Emily that she is supposed to protect us from dangerous people, and to stop scaring the harmless ones.  She looks at me, head down, eyes full of sorrow for her naughtiness.  I go back into the house, and it happens again. 

This dog simply has a warped sense of humor. 

I run back out, telling her it isn’t nice, and it isn’t funny, making old ladies hop all over the sidewalk that way.  I admit, the fact that I’m laughing behind my hand as I yell at her probably puts a teeny, tiny dent in my authority. 

I have just two questions:

How does Emily know who will make the best people to scare out of their wits?

and

How does she know when the taxi drivers who come to my house are Muslim?  If an orthodox Muslim has even his clothing touch a dog, he has to burn the clothes.  Why does Emily shoot out the door when a Muslim comes to pick me up, then practically yawn with boredom when someone who doesn’t care one way or the other drives up?

I keep telling people, all they have to do is throw her a squeakie-toy, and she’s theirs forever.  I guess the low rumble in Emily’s throat, and the bared fangs cause people to doubt my advice. 

I tell people how sweet she is.  The look they give me makes me want to check the mirror, in case I have a raccoon stuck to my face, and just don’t know it.

But Emily is sweet.  She’s just got an “interesting” way of entertaining herself.

Really…