Two-dog nights and days ~ December 14, 1989

David Heiller

Sunday night, Dec. 10, 7:30 p.m. Binti, our 10½-year-old dog, is having a nightmare. She’s lying by the Christmas tree, whining and yipping and quite soundly asleep.

Queen Ida lifts her head up from the rug in the kitchen where she is sleeping, and looks at me. It’s the same blank stare I must be giving her. “What the heck is Binti dreaming about?”

Maybe it’s those Christmas cookies that they were fighting over earlier in the evening. Cindy had the kitchen table covered with them, sugar cookies shaped like pine trees and Santas, moons and stars, lions, and bells, all frosted white with glitter stuck on top. Every time Queen Ida came too close to the table, Binti would snap and growl, making us all jump. Binti knew she couldn’t have any of the cookies, but she was making darn sure that Queen Ida had none either.

The muffin syndrome in action:
Queen Ida is pretending to eat while Binti
looks on coldly.

That’s the Muffin Syndrome in my dictionary, named after my mother-in-law’s late poodle. When Binti was a puppy, we would bring her on our visits there. Muffin would rest her chin on her dog dish, not eating a bite, just growling at her rival. Binti learned the lesson well. Too well.

People learn it too. Our kids especially. If Noah has a book on his bookshelf and Mollie wants to borrow it, he’ll often say no. “Don’t be a Muffin,” I’ll tell him, and he knows exactly what I mean.

8:00 p.m. Binti’s nightmare is over now. She just rose up and looked at me. Must have been a rough one. Maybe about the cold weather. No wagging tail. I call to her, eight feet away, but she doesn’t move. “You’re a good girl,” I say. Α few years ago her tail would have rapped the floor loudly at this. She loved to be complimented. Still does. Only now she is almost totally deaf. You have to shout your praises to her like a sports announcer.

Old age has spoiled Binti. She sleeps in the house most nights now. I used to let her stay in only if it was zero or colder outside. But Cindy challenged that this winter. She wanted her in every night, and during the day too when it was really cold. She soon had the kids on her side

Noah visiting with Binti

One morning as we were going to work, Noah asked me, “Why do you hate Binti?” The question stopped me in my shoes. Hate Binti? Α dog we’ve had for 10 years, since puppyhood? Α dog who was to us then what our children are to us now? Hate her?

“I don’t hate her,” I answered. “She’s a dog, Noah, not a person. Dogs don’t belong in the house. That’s why she has a house of her own.”

“Can she sleep in at night at least?” Cindy asked, looking for the compromise, as usual.

I caved in on that, and Binti sleeps in at night now, even when it’s above zero.

In the morning we’ll find her on the recliner next to the woodstove. It’s a wicked place to sit, reaching Finlayson-sauna temperatures when the stove is roaring. That’s just right for Binti. She can’t get too close to the woodstove. Sometimes she sleeps with her head under the stove. Sometimes her black fur gets singed and stinks up the living room. We call her the Heat Sponge. North Pine Electric could market her as a heat storage unit if she had puppies.

Yesterday morning I woke up in early morning darkness. Listen: Cindy was breathing on my right, and Noah cuddled on my other side. I could hear Mollie in her room, sighing in her sleep, with an occasional grinding of teeth. Then I heard another deep breath, in and out. It sounded like α huge man, barrel chested and weary as weary can be. At first it startled me, until I realized it was Binti on the floor. She had struggled up the 13 steps to join us. No nightmares even.

Malika supervising Binti drinking out of a dishpan.

I called her name in the darkness. I wanted to hear her tail thump against the hardwood floor. But no thumping, just that heavy breathing.

Tuesday morning, Dec. 11, 7:30 a.m. The thermometer says 20 degrees below zero. We’re headed for a high of about 10 below. Cindy asks again if Binti can stay in. “How about if I plug in the light in her dog house?” I answer. Pastor Sjoblom from our church gave this new house to me, complete with a light fixture inside. I’m not sure if it’s intended to keep the dog warm or help her read Scripture.

Binti and Queen Ida bend over their dog dishes to eat breakfast. A tree in the woods cracks with cold. Sounds like a Kent Hrbek shot to the upper deck in right field. Then Binti heads around the corner of the house for her clean, well-lighted place of rest. Soon Ida will join her. It’s a two-dog day, weather-wise.

Inside my car heading to Askov, the radio announces that Will Steger has reached the South Pole, and will celebrate by staying there for a couple days.

He’s celebrating at the South Pole. Back here he’d probably be sunbathing. That’s what Einstein really meant with his theory of relativity. I bet his dogs are warm too, and having peaceful dreams.