The Beagle and the Dane (Part 2)

Having Wilbur is like having a baby.  His entire day basically consists of sleeping, eating, and pooping.  He gets into things that make you call poison control. (75 menthol cough drops, four feet of saran wrap to get to the chocolate cake underneath, a tablecloth.) All he wants sometimes is a big hug.  Taking him on a walk is perfect.  He's big and scary, so I don't have to worry about all those thugs running around LaPorte.  He's content walking right next to me instead of six feet in any other direction.  Everyone stops to compliment us and baby talk to him.  He does not insist on chasing every animal and leaf that moves.  

But the advantages don't stop there.  The following is a list of times when Wilbur makes noise:

1. Snoring.  Which is cute until I can't hear Nick talk because it gets so loud.

2. When he's protecting us from all those aforementioned thugs walking around the house.  He occasionally barks at people he can see outside the windows, which I don't mind because it's a big scary man-eating bark.  It makes me feel safer.  Apparently the pastor across the street has something sketchy going on, because Wilbur never lets him walk around without a good warning.

3. When he's getting off the couch and farts...like an old man.  I've known a lot of dogs with a lot of bad gas before, but with Wilbur you go unconscious for a few minutes and wake up to the insides of your mouth peeling.  There's no way to escape.  It's useless trying to tuck your nose into your shirt, or the book your reading, or a nearby blanket. His gas permeates everything.

I know I can't make Wilbur sound perfect, because that just wouldn't be the truth.  He had something of a rough puppyhood.  The biggest difference between him and Rudy here is that when Wilbur looks back to when he got into the trashcan, he remembers the punishment that came with it.  Rudy, however, only remembers how tasty all of the goodies inside where.  Wilbur learns from his mistakes.  He knows now that toads do not taste good and bumblebees are not for eating.  He knows that if he tries to fit under the bed he will get stuck, and I cannot help him out.  He has learned to keep track of all four legs on the way down the stairs or he will end up on his face.  

The most distracting and somewhat disturbing part about Wilbur happens when he wants his belly rubbed or he's itching behind his ears.  He hasn't been fixed yet (purely because of expenses, not because we aren't going to) which has left his golfball sized manhood bouncing around in the back.  It's indecent.  I feel like I should put a pair of underwear on him.  That will have to change before our daughter is old enough to start asking questions.

The truth is Wilbur is my favorite for a lot of reasons, some that make more sense than others.  It's the closest thing I can have to a horse in the house, which is certainly appealing.  Maybe my own personality is more similar to Wilbur's.  We both don't mind naps in the middle of the day, we agree that being lazy on occasion is healthy, and there is something weird about the pastor across the street...