I didn't want a difficult dog. We'd already had a difficult dog — Riley, who died in November 2017 at the age of 16, and who lived a long, happy life but spent his first 10 years terrified of bicycles, small children, in-line roller skates, vacuum cleaners, loud trucks, other dogs, thunder and houseflies.
I loved Riley down to the ground. But I had to be cautious with him, all the time — avoiding busy areas on walks, keeping him kenneled when workers came over, watching when we approached a blind corner in case a small child or a bicyclist came dashing around the bend.
It was hard to walk freely with him, mindlessly, the way I love to walk, the way I walk with Rosie (our non-difficult dog). (Oh, Rosie is an easy, easy walker.)
When Riley died, I cried for days. And then we adopted Angus. A puppy! A new beginning!
And dagnabit, now we have another difficult dog.
At home, Angus is the sweetest, mellowest dog we have ever had. He smooches me awake each morning. He is cheerfully submissive to Rosie, even though he outweighs her by 10 pounds. When he's out in the yard, he races toward the house the minute I call his name. He's joyful and funny, a happy dog.
But out in the world, he is on high alert. I can't walk freely and mindlessly with him. He pulls on the leash, scanning the route ahead for rabbits and squirrels. When he sees people, he often barks (and he has an impressive bark).
To be fair: Angus is good about 90 percent of the time. But that last 10 percent keeps me on edge.
