Planet of the Blind: Dingleberries

This is just too funny not to share.

Last November we acquired a lovely Golden Retriever, Maggie, who needed a home. As happy as I am to have this dog in my life, I could be just as happy if we found someone else with whom to share the joy. (Translated: we also have two Labradors. Do we really need a third big dog?)

(The photo above is of Maggie sitting at the water's edge at Lake Winnipesaukee, the wind blowing through her golden locks.)

A few months ago I had a conversation with my friend Anne. She and her husband Clete live in NH and they too own a cottage on Lake Winnipesaukee. Anne mentioned they were thinking of getting another dog as a playmate to the one they already have but that they were too busy for a puppy right now. I said "oh, perhaps you'd like to give Maggie a try?" I was planning a trip to NH so the timing was perfect.

"That's an idea" she said. "Let me talk to Clete and get back to you".

Maggie and I drove the 16 hours to NH. She's great company so I would have taken her with me anyway. It's a good thing because when I got there Anne and I spoke again and she then revealed that "Clete really doesn't think he wants a Golden Retriever. They're wanderers, their coat is too much maintenance and besides, they get dingleberries."

"Dingleberries!" I said with a laugh. "Dame Maggie NEVER gets dingleberries. She's much too much the lady... She's not a wanderer either. Really. She's a lovely dog."

"OK, I'll talk to him again"

Relaying this to my husband later that evening he said "Dingleberries! Clete is a gastroenterologist for God's sake. He does colonocopies all day. He wears a sweatshirt at camp with "colon crusader" written across the back of it. What's a dingleberry or two to "The Colon Crusader?"

Anne and Clete decided to give Maggie a try. I visited Anne for lunch the next day. I was prepared to leave Maggie with her, which I did.

Maggie, however, was NOT pleased and I knew it. She did not relish the idea of being the "playmate" to this big, shall I say young, neutered but very amorous German Shepherd. Jackson, as he is called, would not leave her alone. I mean, he was all over her. While it is possible for a neutered male to have his way with a female it wouldn't be pleasant for her. Especially for Dame Maggie. Her solution to the problem was to lie down and not get up - not unless she absolutely had to.

Ever the optimist, and as a former guide dog trainer, I knew that there would be an adjustment period for Maggie and that it could take days. My hope was that Jackson could learn to "play" with Maggie with out needing to hump her obsessively. I also knew that the success of this "experiment" would hinge as much on the dog handlers as on the dogs themselves. How much did they really want this to work? Neither dog was aggressive. One was just much "busier" than the other.

Fast Forward -> 24 hours later....

I'm back at my cabin realizing I'm kind of missing Maggie when I get the phone call.

"Connie, Clete really doesn't think this is going to work out and I have to say I agree with him. We want a dog that will play with Jackson and we can't get her to move! I kid you not, she has hardly moved since you left her! I can't get her to move. The kids can't get her to move. We did finally get her to go outside at one point and then she started to wander - it was almost as if she was looking for something - and she wouldn't come when called. Clete had to go after her with a leash. Honestly, if I didn't know better I would think there was something wrong with this dog!"

"No problem Anne. I'll take her back!" I knew Dame Maggie was not happy. I knew she could/would adjust given the time. But I also knew that Maggie wasn't the kind of dog they were looking for. Maggie is my kind of dog. Quiet. Gentle. Affectionate. Sweet. Well mannered. And not at all horny.

I knew then that she is my dog now and she is meant to be my dog.

Oh but wait! There's more to the dingleberry story...

Fast forward again -> Maggie and I left New Hampshire a few days later and as I always do, we stopped at my parent's house in New York to spend the night there. It was a lovely evening. We were all sitting out on the back deck enjoying "cocktail hour" and I was telling them the Maggie saga. When I got to the part about Clete and his aversion to dingleberries my father said innocently:

"What's a dingleberry?"

"Really Dad? You don't know what a dingleberry is?"

"No I don't. Is it a real word?"

"Yeah it's a real word..."

"Wait! It is?" my nother asked looking rather embarrassed. "What does it mean? Because I've been calling your father a dingleberry for years! I just thought I made it up!"

At this point I was laughing so hard they couldn't help but laugh at me laughing at them.

"You guys! Dingleberries - they're little pieces of poop stuck to the hair around an animals' anus."

More laughter now mixed with tears. I couldn't resist. I ran to the computer to print out the official definition just so my parents would know I wasn't making this up. Still laughing, tears streaming down my face, I read this to them:

Here is one of two definitions according to dictionary.com

din·gle·ber·ry (dĭng'gəl-běr'ē) Pronunciation Key