Dogs from Afghanistan are said to be rugged. They are strong, versatile, freakishly healthy, and basically bomb proof.
Talk about false advertising.
We have already determined Willy is pretty melodramatic over the slightest thing. Quick a nail by accident, he’s crippled for days. Inadvertently bump into him, and people in the next zip code can hear him scream. I could go on, but I think you get the message.
We have also determined that Willy has not a lick of dog sense with respect to survival on the trail. Though his sniffer is fully functional, he has no clue how to track by scent if he should become separated from The Hoard. All a rabbit need do if Willy is chasing it is hide behind a very low shrub, then point and laugh as Willy runs on by. We have also determined Willy’s hearing is fine, his interpretation of what he hears is up for debate: i.e. he can’t track on the trail by hearing when we call him loudly, yet at home, the words “Go Outside” in a normal voice, when Willy doesn’t want to go out, causes him to quickly jump on the nearest piece of furniture and pretend he’s asleep.
Once again, Willy has stretched the bounds of reason when it comes to his place in the dog world, more particularly, the Afghanistan dog world:
The weather conditions in Afghanistan are pretty harsh. It’s dogs have evolved to endure both the blazing heat of summer and the bitter cold of winter. A thick coat with an even thicker undercoat protects these survivors from climactic extremes. It is a rugged creature indeed that can adapt to such severities.
Enter Willy. Had he been the Adam of his Afghanistan canine lineage, there would be no dogs in Afghanistan today.
Here’s the thing: It’s been freakishly cold of late, and our heater isn’t working. Before you start playing violins for us, consider this: Just how cold can it possibly get in a relatively small house where 2 people and 13 dogs are constantly breathing? Despite outside temperatures, we have never gone below 50 degrees inside – a far cry from inhumane for either humans or canines. If you want to feel sorry for someone, feel sorry for me – I have to work in the outside temperatures while Crabby and The Hoard spend the days in relative climate control!
All that being said, Sarah, DASH! and Franky get cold easy, and Gracie, whole other story, now requires thermoregulation assistance. Translation: Until the temperatures get back up to rational, those particular kids have to wear sweaters.
Last night, Crabby and I went clothes shopping for the kids. We came home with the wrong sizes for DASH! and Gracie, but Sarah (at least her outside wear) and Franky were suitably outfitted.
Sarah’s inside sweater was too small, so it was set aside to be exchanged. At some point it disappeared from its storage site. I looked high and low for it – we certainly didn’t want The Idiots deciding it was a toy, damaging it so we couldn’t return it. When I did find it, it was not in the jaws of The Marauders, but under the paws and chin of Willy, as he gently cuddled it, on a tucked away bed. When I approached him to take the sweater back, he uttered a low whine, while looking at me with upturned eyes, liquid pools of pure devotion. I had no choice but to see if what he was asking for was to have the sweater put on him. Turns out, that was indeed the case.
If Willy wants a sweater of his own, then a sweater of his own he shall have. I did warn him he would overheat with his fluffy coat and thick undercoat. Still, we would keep this precious Willywear and put it on him from time to time if it made him happy. Willy’s happiness is our primary concern, after all.
Once attired, Willy left the seclusion of the tucked away bed and wandered off. It was some time later I realized he wasn’t velcroed to my hip. Thinking he got into some life threatening situation with the sweater (this is Willy we’re talking about after all), I went searching for him.
This was how I found him:
Yes, my extreme climate adapted, thick under-coated, fluffy outer-coated Afghanistan dog, the lineage possessing the ability to survive in the open, in drastic weather conditions, was laying on a dog bed, in a sweater, in front of a space heater!
Willy didn’t budge from that spot, not even to get snarky with Morty if Morty happened to walk by. Indeed, Willy made no attempt whatsoever to even get on the people bed, his preferred sleeping location, when the rest of us retired for the night.
This was how I found him this morning:
This was the temperature this morning:
Every other kid, though grudgingly, went outside, quickly did their business and came back in. Not Willy. He ate his breakfast then planted his sweater adorned self, back on the bed, in front of the space heater.
I actually had to forcibly move Willy, body completely limp, from the living room, through the kitchen, down the hallway and out the back door. Once outside, he collapsed to his side, eyes lolling as he said goodbye to this cruel world.
To make matters worse, today I needed extra help with work, and at that particular time, as I had to forcibly take Willy outside, my crew had arrived. To give you an idea of what they saw, one guy walked up to the gate and asked “Did your dog die?” Nope, my evolutionarily rugged Afghanistan dog, clad in a sweater, simply didn’t want to go out in the cold. He never did stand up, not even to pee, so I ended up having to carry him to the back door and put him inside.
When I went back in a few minutes later to say good bye to the kids, guess where Willy was? Go ahead, guess! If you said back on the dog bed, in front of the space heater, you would be correct.
I don’t know if the ‘advertising’ for war dogs was misleading, or if we just got a lemon. But hey, if life gives you lemons, make lemonade. We just can’t juice our particular lemon on cold days.