Everything written here is true. The first part happened in the real world. The second part played out in the other real world, my mind.
Ron the guy and Jake the dog squared off. Wagging forefinger vs. growling snout. Man vs. miniature poodle. On the pink silk sofa in Sally’s living room.
I was dog and house-sitting for Sally whose home looks like it sprang from the pages of Architectural Digest. I wanted to return it to her the way I’d found it, not looking like a candidate for Extreme Makeover: Home Edition. 
But, the testosterone tsunami Ron and Jake were stirring up threatened to sweep away that wish like so much flotsam.
I first met Ron, a friend of my husband’s, when my youthful, radical feminist consciousness was in full, take-no-prisoners blossom. It was a time when I would rather have torn out an uppity man’s liver and slurped it down with a fine Chianti than put up with even a whiff of macho posturing. It’s a wonder Ron and his liver are still attached to each other.
I was all about taking back the night for women. Ron was all about, well, taking women. When Ron puffed up with masculine bravado he expanded like rising bread dough, filling entire rooms, bulging out of windows and doors. Like a baker punches her dough down to size, I delighted in knocking the hot air out Ron’s hubris.
But that was then. I’ve moved on and over the decades Ron has mellowed. We hardly argue about women’s issues anymore.
No. Today we have a new topic that we can barely touch without unleashing a torrent. Cesar Millan. People either love Cesar or they don’t. Ron does. I don’t.
So when Jake, my friend’s miniature poodle and Sadie’s playmate, growled at Ron for trying to pry the red rubber ball from Jake’s mouth, Ron went all Cesar on poor Jake.
“Noooo. Nooooo. Yooou give meeeee that ball!” Ron snarked back at Jake, staring into Jake’s eyes within an inch of his snout and shaking his finger at him.
“Why should Jake give you his ball, Ron?” I asked.
“Because I said so. I’m the human. Jake’s trying to be dominant and I’m going to teach him he can’t do that!”
“You’ve got to be f—ing kidding me! This is Jake’s house. Jake’s couch. Jake’s ball. Jake’s never seen you before and he’ll probably never see you again, and YOU think Jake should give YOU his prized possession because you’re a bloody HUMAN? Are you out of your mind?”
The contest escalated. The more Ron insisted Jake give him the ball, the louder Jake growled. Then, Jake upped the ante. He pulled back his lips in an impressive snarl, his glistening canines poised to amputate Ron’s frantically wagging finger. Jake weighs only twenty pounds but he can puff himself like some weird hybrid of a hot air balloon meets Jaws.
I took my good slow time sauntering to the couch, half fearing an imminent thunder burst of blood and half hoping Jake would follow through on his threat.
“Drop the ball, Jake,” I said as nonchalantly as I would ask someone to pass the salt. Jake looked at me and dropped the ball into my hand. Better than liver and a fine Chianti.
Brilliant post. 🙂 I agree, Jake’s house, Jake’s couch, His toy.
Thank you. And, I’m sure that’s exactly how Jake sees it.
As you know, I’m no fan of people using these methods on their own dogs. I’m especially NOT a fan of someone who doesn’t know the dog trying to boss it around.
Someone psssttt’d & poked Lilly in public once, and I was NOT pleased.
That is so not OK. What did you do?
There is a tasty dose of irony. I wonder if Ron got it. 🙂
Hmm. I wonder too.
I’m glad you appreciated the irony 🙂