Neoquest II: A Field Guide

Written by: the_dog_god

Cobie weighed 35 pounds when Grandpa found her. On a German Shepherd mix, 35 pounds does not leave much skeleton to the imagination. She had obviously been owned by someone: feral dogs do not tend to act that friendly, or show up alone after being pitched out of the side of a pickup. Cobie was terrified when men went near her back then. Even someone as nonthreatening as my dad sent her whimpering to the back of the barn where she hid under an old, rusted-out tractor. She liked my sister and me from the start, though.

Basically, that's why I prefer animals to people.

I still think it's a miracle that we ever managed to get her home from my grandpa's farm. I can't say I'd recommend a 2 hour drive on the interstate in heavy traffic with two kids under 8 and a moderately neurotic dog in a slight panic to anyone wishing to retain most of their sanity. My parents were treated to a lovely 2 hour argument between Lisa and me over what the dog was to be called.

"Sugar," I whined.

"No. We're calling her Cobra," Lisa said firmly.

"But she doesn't look like a Cobra. Who would want to be named Cobra? She looks like a Sugar," I wheedled. This was entirely untrue. Dogs named Sugar tend to be all-white, adorable, and a little yappy. Cobie was black and brown, with a white tail, chest, and stripe on her face. She was not cute, but beautiful. Yes, she had the appearance of a skeleton with a skin disease, but any child could tell that she would be a gorgeous dog once she gained some weight and had a bath.

"She wants to be named Cobra. She told me. Isn't that right, Cobra?" asked Lisa in her most sweet voice. Cobie thumped her tail against the floor of the car. "You don't want to be called Sugar, do you?" The word 'Sugar' was said in the same tone of voice many use for the word 'disembowelment'.

That was pretty much that. I believed my sister could talk to dogs, and I didn't want to call a dog a name against her will. I also believed that my sister was a magical pixie from the Netherlands, that she operated a chocolate shop in the attic after I went to sleep, and that I was her genetically-engineered clone. After all, she'd told me so. It was not a large logical leap for a 3 year-old to make in believing that Lisa could talk to dogs.

"Can you ask her if we can call her Cobie or something?" I asked.

"Yes, Rosie, I think she'd like that."

I scratched behind her soft ears. "Good girl, Cobie."

---

Cobie was never supposed to be in my life long. The plan was that she would come home with us, we'd fatten her up a bit and get her proper veterinary care, and then find her a good home elsewhere. This is the sort of plan that you really should not undertake when you've got a 3 year-old daughter who desperately wants a dog of her own and tends to get attached. It was one of my parents' more obvious lapses in judgment.

A second lapse in judgment was to introduce her to Cinnamon so quickly. Cinnamon was a sweet, chubby beagle who was considered the family dog, in the same way my mother considered the Nissan (which only she was allowed to drive) the family car. Back then, Cinnamon worshiped my mother (and Lisa, to a lesser degree). Now that she's hit the ancient age of 17 and I'm getting there, she has grown far more fond of me than she used to be. However, she was young in the grand old year of 1993, she was not happy to see herself usurped.

Mom unthinkingly let Cobie and Cinnamon out into the yard together immediately. There were no witnesses, but Cinnamon started howling as soon as we'd let them outside. As soon as the door was open, she dashed in, bleeding a bit. I could tell by my mother's expression that this was it for Cobie's association with our family. Never mind that Cobie was lamblike with everyone, including Cinnamon, after that. My mother placed an ad in the paper the next day.

I cried for three straight hours after Mom told me that Cobie was going to go to a new family. It didn't matter to me that she chewed on major structural features of the house, or that she'd nipped Cinnamon. After all, Mom was a grouch in the mornings, Lisa was loud and rarely shared her toys, and Dad snored so loudly he woke up freight trains. What was family, if not a bunch of people and animals you cared about in spite of their horrible habits?

This argument carried little weight with my parents.

The "nice new family" that was to take Cobie in consisted of two college students. They were mean, horrible people who wanted to take my dog away. In retrospect, I realize that they were probably lovely girls who just wanted to help out a nice doggie. Still, I'll never forget the look on my mother's face when she came into the backyard, where I'd been watching the clouds go by with my head on Cobie's stomach. I was not supposed to play with Cobie alone. Not after what had happened with Cinnamon. My mother radiated fear and worry, but at the time I could only sense her anger at me and imagined that she hated Cobie.

I followed my mother and Cobie back to the front of the house where the college students were waiting. I glumly handed the taller one Cobie's leash.

"What's her name?" she asked me in that obnoxiously sunny tone of voice employed only by kindergarten teachers. I hated it even then. Perhaps that's why I said what I did.

"Sugar." Cobie had been trained to come when called, but she had never shown the slightest reaction to the word 'Sugar', except when my sister had mocked it before.

The college students lasted 2 hours before they phoned in a panic, worried about the scar on her elbow and her habit of chewing floor coverings if left inside for long. Also, 'Sugar' wouldn't come when called. Cobie was back in my arms before bedtime. At age 3, when any day has a statistically higher probability of being the best or worst day of your life compared to when you're older, that one managed to be both.

Pudding is a dog person, but with a definite fondness for cats. Many people on the internet have expressed the belief that she is, in fact, a cat. People on the internet are weird.

Editor was not needed for this article, all someone did was proof-read it.

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