Enter the perfect canine

I'm not a dog person. I've had some good ones in my life, from Bonnie the cocker spaniel to Topsy, The Ugliest Dog on Earth (Why didn't they have that competition when I had her???) There was Jelly Bean, the dachshund and Silver, the Rottweiler-spitz cross (very determined spitz daddy, very accommodating Rott mommy). But the fact is, I prefer kittens. You drop a kitten in the litter box and voila! Housebreaking is done. Cats aren't quite as much fun as kittens, but they make great lap warmers when you're working on the computer late at night.

But where I prefer kittens to cats, I also prefer dogs to puppies.

Puppies whine and wet and chew and demand way too much attention. Kind of like kids.

Dogs, however, are great companions. They're loyal and kind and supportive, no matter how much you screw up. Kind of like husbands.

I would love to get a puppy to the dog stage, but I'm just not good at training. I'm not consistent, I'm way too soft on them when they bat their big brown eyes, and I'm not there enough. If I could just get a young dog that was already housebroken, not hyperactive, past the chewing stage, quiet, obedient and knew how to ignore angry young cats, I'd be thrilled. Cute would be a plus, and being leash-broken a must.

Well, through bizarre circumstances, I now have that exact dog. My best friend's neighbor found the dog once before after it broke free from the rope its owners kept it on. Since she had dogs, she asked my friend to take temporary custody.

At the time, my friend didn't know where it belonged, but she searched diligently. He had a collar and seemed well-fed, so she knew he wasn't an abandoned stray. Yet.

When she reunited the dog with its owner's less-than-enthusiastic parent, she was a little concerned. She kept an eye on the schnoodle (half miniature schnauzer and half toy poodle) whenever she drove down the street. The neighbor was also keeping an eye on it. A few days ago, they discovered the house completely empty, old mattresses in the ditch and a "For Rent" sign in the yard.

And the dog, tied to a clothesline in the back with little shelter, and no food. In the rain.

They waited a day. After all, the family could be in the process of moving and could be back to get it.

They didn't come back.

Matted, filthy, cold, wet and hungry, the sweet little dog was more than happy to be rescued. My friend couldn't keep him (her husband is in deep manure with me because of that -- she needed that dog) so she called me in a panic. She knew our yard was fenced. She knew my own husband's nose was still a little out of joint from when we replaced the late great Tasha Cat with not one, but two kittens instead of the dog he wanted, and she knew I'd already met the little guy and liked him.

So there he was, bonding with Buzz, ignoring the hissing Karma and Kismet, drinking water without sloshing it everywhere, sleeping quietly through the night, and politely requesting potty runs before any accidents could take place. He fetches. He sits. He doesn't howl or whine and I've only heard him bark two or three times. He stared down an English pointer that's a little too obsessive about his pet buffalo at Cedar Rock, but he did it without being aggressive. (In fact, he did it from behind me, and his one, low bark was easily interpreted as "Oh yeah? Oh yeah? My mom can beat up your mom!")

So why is the perfect dog creeping me out?

Because there's no such thing as perfect. He's like the Stepford Dog.

I'm a firm believer in "If it sounds too good to be true, it usually is." I keep thinking he's going to turn out to be an escaped lab animal, carrying the plague. Or an escaped axe murderer in a really clever disguise, just waiting to catch us off guard. Or he's going to have been stolen from some poor child with some dread disease and I'll feel obligated to give him back after he's stolen my heart.

And yes, he's stolen my heart.

When he threw up in the back of the van on the way home from Cedar Rock, the boys thought I would pitch a fit. Instead, I was relieved. I can deal with a little doggy barf now and then -- just not the whining and howling. Oh, wait, that was the kids when I told them to clean up the mess...

Today, Emmett (he's a clown and looks like a hobo, so we named him after the great Emmett Kelly) is getting his first professional grooming. I know it's his first because the hair on his belly and legs is matted beyond redemption, so we're shaving the whole mess off. I told my husband I halfway expect the groomer to find the zipper that hides his battery pack.

"What would you do if she did?" he asked.

I looked at the curly-haired clown grinning up at me from beside my bed.

"Buy new batteries."

-- Mary Reeves is a Times-Gazette staff writer. She can be contacted at mreeves@t-g.com.