Cooper the dog is a laissez-faire capitalist. He believes the free market will create the perfect amount of supply to meet demand. I know this because Cooper performs not a single trick without demanding payment. He can sit, stay, and come perfectly, so long as compensation (defined as “bacon”) is forthcoming. He hops to the couch on request, but not for free. He heels like a champ, but remuneration must be generous and swift.
Lately, Cooper has perfected the canine version of runway modeling, frequently posing in hilarious and un-doglike positions. He allows photos at no charge but insists on a hefty licensing fee should his image be shared for commercial purposes.
“I’m a workin’ dog, not a chump,” he tells me.
I really wasn’t intending to get a second dog. My old guy, Hugo, enjoys being a solo pup. A good-natured fellow, Hugo spent years playing second fiddle to an assortment of rambunctious and extrovertish pooches. He did this with grace and, for the last half decade, has reveled in being the sole critter of my attentions. However, a few months back I noticed Hugo was not just old (now twelve), he was acting old. He was sleeping a lot, appeared a tad listless, and had no great desire to play or explore.
I’ve seen this before. It’s sort of a warning sign that change is needed, and the answer is always to bring in a young dog. My initial thought was to adopt somebody fun, happy, and below thirty pounds.
But Cooper rigged the game. Because he’s also a branding expert that could put at least two of the Kardashians to shame, he claimed to be half Jack Russell (I love Jack Russells) and half Aussie cattle dog. He also said he was twenty-five pounds. I met Coop, and he was so charming and well-behaved that I could not resist bringing him home. He was totally housebroken, exceedingly polite to Hugo, and the first night hopped on the foot of the bed and slept eight hours straight.
It was all a ruse.
I did a DNA test on Coop, and while he is 47 percent Aussie, the rest of his claims were fanciful. He’s 15 percent pit bull, 15 percent Staffordshire terrier (which is basically a pit bull with a ritzy name), and 7 percent chihuahua. He holds not a drop of Jack Russell blood, and while he might have been around thirty pounds when we met, he’s now twice that. Cooper feels that 4 am is a perfectly fine time to wake up, and I’m thinking of suing the doggie DNA company because they obviously missed the fact that he’s part Amish.
None of which matters a bit, because Cooper is a lifesaver. I care not a whit about his lineage or his size. I accept his scorn for a full night’s rest, and even his disgusting habit of feasting on manure. Hugo has not played so much since he was a puppy and he no longer acts old. The two dogs wrestle and chase for hours on end. They dig massive holes. They bark at horses and cows, trucks and cats. Often, I find them asleep, curled in a ball in a warm ray of sun.
I was thanking Coop for all these things, telling him what a good boy he was, when he handed me a bill. I expected to pay dearly, and could not believe my eyes when I saw what my little capitalist had written: “On the (dog) house.”
“Just messin’ with you,” he explained. “Family is a gift, not a job.”
This column was originally published in the May 2022 edition of Missouri Life magazine.
