Our eldest son called his dad a few days ago. He announced, "I'm coming home to pick up the bite suit."
Now this doesn't sound like a big deal until you realize that "coming home" involves a trip from Africa. And the bite suit? Despite what you think, it's not rainy season protection against malaria-infested mosquitoes. It's the body armor needed for his new line of work as a sales rep for an executive canine protection agency. We consider it payback for his dog-deprived youth.
You see, his dad was a mailman during his college years. Now whenever Senor is in the presence of a dog bigger than a chihuahua, his palms start to sweat while his blood pressure spikes to meteoric levels. In fact, my big guy has been known to cower behind me, his petite wife, on more than a couple of occasions at the first woof of a deep-throated bark.
None of our sons has owned a dog, at least not in our home. All of them have wanted an enormous, slobbering, shedding bundle of canine love. The son in question already owns three dogs in various sizes including quite big, awfully large, and bone-crushingly huge.
This same son is in the process of acquiring
Dog Number Four, but it might just put his marriage at risk. (He travels a lot, leaving his pretty new wife in charge of the poop bags). Besides, these protection dogs don't come cheap. You can buy an Audi SUV for less,
but you get a dog whose IQ is higher than most college grads.
We figure that
Dog Number Four is a condition of his employment. You know,
you can't talk the talk if you don't walk the dog.
Enter Tommy, the Wonder Dawg.
We've seen video of Tommy's training. He can fly six feet off the ground for fifteen yards before he attaches himself to your upper arm or leg. He leaps tall dumpsters in a single bound and can withstand 5Gs of centrifugal force as you spin yourself faster than a Kansas twister in a fit of dog-flinging desperation. And believe or not, he can hum
Leader of the Pack.
Even more incredible, with one softly spoken German command Tommy will instantly release his grip, and hold his muzzle at groin level - a move designed to thwart any villain who values his (or her) child-bearing years. With just one
"Änderung," Tommy will transform himself into a lawn sculpture, a document shredder, or a home microdermabrasion system. He can even diaper a baby.
We met Tommy when he was a couple of months into his training. Well, I met him. (Senor spent most of the time sitting in our car with the doors locked.) His personality was sweet and attentive.
The dog's... but Senor is pretty great, too.
Being around Tommy was a mind-altering experience. When he was out of his ginormous crate, Tommy wore a shock collar, just in case he needed a "correction." Sadly, our son corrected him a lot. It was a tough learning curve, if you ask me.
The result was a Tommy who was tied to our son's hip. The mental vibes were intense. You could almost hear the dog say, "I'm on it! I'm on it!!" as soon as our son started to speak.
"I'll do it! I'm doing it!! I'M ON IT!!"
Tommy glowed. I'm not sure if it was the glint of intelligence or the misty-eyed regret of
NOT zzap PERFORMING zzzzzzappp BETTER.
Anyway, to get back to the bite suit. It seems our son has to deliver two fully trained dogs to their new owners in Saudi Arabia and Nigeria next week. As part of the package the buyer gets a tutorial, which involves our son being viciously attacked while the new owner tries the commands. Sounds like a heap of fun.
The suit weighs thirty pounds, and makes you feel like the Michelin Tire Man. Puffy, but protected.
It's the suit of a Maitre-Chien.
Ahhh, who is the master here?
I'm guessing that the total protection dog package includes a suitcase full of accessories, which arrived at our house via UPS, Federal Express and USPS during this past week. I've also added a bottle of wine, because I figure somebody's going to need a drink before the deal is done.
I know I'd want to toss back a few, especially if I were Tommy's clone.
Personally, I'm ready for a chorus of
It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas... but for our son's sake, I'm
really hoping there's a Kevlar jock strap in the pile.
