Chihuahua Fear

Jorge was, surprisingly, the first one of us to get in a campground brawl.

I was walking him to shake down a poo before bed. With no warning whatsoever, the most obese boxer I have ever seen came darting out of her campsite and jumped Jorge. She was snarling, Jorge was screaming, the owners came running out to pry her off him, and I stood there, with NO idea what was going on. The first conscious thought I remember having was, "I should really do something." So I yanked him up into my arms by his leash.

Apparently I am fabulous in an emergency.

The owners asked if he was ok. As I said blearily, "I don't know," Jorge started screaming. I went to find Josh. The camp host went to talk to the owners.

He's ok. He has a shallow claw puncture on his rib cage. It's possible he has a bruised rib or a pulled muscle that nothing can be done about, but he's happy and eating and healing, so no worries.

The camp host said the dog was elderly and toothless (or Jorge would likely be dead) and had probably gone momentarily insane. She should have been on a leash, but the dog had never behaved that way before, and hadn't the entire weekend.

The next morning, Jorge didn't want to come out of his formerly detestable crate. I cajoled him out. He didn't want to go down more than half the campsite drive. I cajoled him down. He didn't want to go into the road. I cajoled him into the road. He didn't want to go near the edges, where the campsites were. I stopped cajoling.

Buddy, who was with me, wanted to still introduce him to other dogs. I said, "honey, we're going to let him take his time. He's afraid now, and he has a right to be."

And, as so often (too often) happens, I realized I had to pay attention to my own supremely wise words.

She's afraid. And she has a right to be.

When she refuses to ride her beloved bike rather than adhere to the boundaries I set, it's because she's afraid to let me protect her. And she has a right to be.

When I ask her to put the Monopoly money in the Monopoly box and instead she spreads the entire contents of the two game boxes across our (fairly large) entire kitchen because she's

"organizing"

while complaining the entire time how mean I am to make her put away one of the 26 toys she and the Cuddle Bear were using, it's because she's afraid to do something I tell her to do. And she has a right to be.

When I set out a tank top to wear with her long flowing skirt on a 95-degree day and she selects a long-sleeved fuzzy shirt instead to wear on the second-grade's day-long walking tour of the downtown area and playground, it's because she's afraid to let me be in control.

And she has a right to be.



(And when I say something reeeeeeeeeeally snarky to the people in the van next to me in the car-rider line who use the f-bomb and average of once every three seconds, including to the filthy half-dressed toddler roaming around in the back, because they make nasty comments about who on earth would put on a long-sleeved shirt and a long skirt on a 95-dregree day without knowing that she's the daughter of the unstable-looking woman in the car next to them- before peeling away out of the parking lot,

it's because I'm defensive of my child.
And I have a right to be.)