Growing up in a family of Innie’s, I couldn’t imagine that the Outie’s were anything but savages. Then I married one and my perspective began to change. At least enough to know that there is room in this world for both kinds of people: Those who let their dogs live inside and wear clothes and Halloween costumes, and those who keep their dogs outside in kennels. What did you think I meant?
This Great Divide came to mind when I recently finished writing a book. It’s about an ancient immortal warrior and the clan he protects from the outside world. There’s murder, mayhem, and culture clashes, not to mention that immortal bachelor’s first almost girlfriend EVER. Right? But what feedback did I get? “Hey, why can’t the dog go inside the immortal warrior’s cabin?” We’re talking about a guy who won’t even have a toilet inside. He’s been around since the beginning, he’s kind of stuck in his ways, you know? And the dog is gross. Think of a cross between a pack of hyenas, wolves, and Beagles.
Dear Hubby once gave me a Golden Retriever puppy about 36 hours before we moved cross country. That was an adventurous trip. Max soon had his place of honor in our brand new little house on the prairie. I wasn’t having any of that Outie blasphemy. My world was Max’s world. Yeah, I was one of those kinds of pet people. Thing was, Max’s inside domain became smaller and smaller as Max got bigger and bigger. Why? He ate everything. I’m talking windowsills, leashes, collars, and anything he could get his teeth on. Max could chew a hole through a wall, the ground, bring it. He could not be trusted. It didn’t much matter whether he was inside or out anyway, because he’d jump through the window if he got in a hurry to be in the other place. A closed window, you know the kind, full of glass.
Out they went, into a lovely little kennel, except when it was inclement or hot. Then I couldn’t bear it and would let them into the air-conditioned laundry room, shut the door, and just listen to them jump and knock into things. Drove Dear Hubby nuts, but hey, I’m an Innie, you know?
Then the beagle showed up. Beagle puppies have these eyes, you know the kind? The kind that Mother Nature puts on the faces of those most likely to be assassinated, if you knew what they’d do to you once they grew up. Oh, I’m just kidding. Don’t assassinate cute stuff. It’s bad karma. Cute little beagle was too tiny and helpless for the kennel. He didn’t know any better than to wet on the drapes/wall/couch/purse/power outlets/insert any noun here. He bit everyone too, just that kind of dog that stares at you and doesn’t like the look in your eye – or maybe he just didn’t like eyes because he bit everyone. He got big enough to go live in kennel land the night he was big enough to climb on a bed, and make his business on a pillowcase next to a sleeping head.
Does this mean I became an Outie? No, just an indoor/outdoor hunting dog person. (It’s a thing, you live with a herd of hunting dogs and we’ll talk.) And I will say this for any working dogs, be it hunting dogs, or herding dogs, dogs with an occupation are the happiest dogs on earth. They radiate joy in every step, whether they’re hunting grasshoppers, rooting through your purse, or doing their business on your bed. So don’t judge my ancient immortal warrior for keeping his dogs outside, okay?
Are you an Innie, or an Outie? Do you think that the other kind are savages?