The dog has never come when I called him. He has eventually come when I get very angry, but he’s pretty terrible about coming when I call him otherwise. I’ve had many occasions over the past two weeks to call his name and want him to come to me and he has gotten much better about doing so.
Every time he comes to me when I call his name if we’re outisde, he cowers when he approaches me–tail between his legs, his back curved away from me, his head down, like he doesn’t dare not come, but he really, really doesn’t want to.
I have never hit him out of anger. I regularly have to smack his big yellow butt because it is big and yellow and it’s a butt. But I have never hit him in anger.
The Butcher, who can actually be scary when he yells, has never seen the dog cower like he does when he comes up to me.
I have laughed, for a year, at his great love of men. But, dear readers, he doesn’t have some unnatural love of men. He is, in his own good-natured way, a little afraid of women. He clearly tries not to be a jerk about it, so it took me a long, long time to realize it.
But he’s only now starting to overcome the fear that I’m going to really hurt him.
Which is funny considering the number of times he’s poked his eyeball on my toe. You’d think that would be quite painful.
But no, this is some older hurt.
I find it really touching, though, that he is, in general, such a good boy that it took me this long to recognize it.