Our dog Iggy Pup is probably the most awkward dog in the world, second only to Denver the Guilty Dog (watch this video this instant (while still continuing to read this (parenthesis inside parenthesis=bonus awkward points!))).
Iggy is all limbs, like a baby horse. He is too large for the spaces he choose to inhabit. He has difficult-to-understand phobias, like skateboards, for example - even ones that are sitting unused against the wall.
Iggy's favorite thing to do is stand at random points in the room at random angles, staring into space in complete stillness. He doesn't sit in his dog bed. He doesn't "relax." He will stand like this for minutes at a time, until you turn your head for just a second, only to find Iggy standing at another random point in the room, angled at nothing, totally still as if he had been there for minutes. It's like he just doesn't know where to put himself.
But Iggy is the most awkward when it comes to how he treats his humans. He loves our best friends and family with all his heart, albeit in a very awkward way: putting his mouth on their mouth in the middle of them telling a story, licking them for uncomfortably long periods, jumping in their laps, and his biggest MO, sitting on their feet with his bony butt, or shoving said bony butt in their face.
But I've noticed a strange pattern in the people Iggy dislikes -- those he barks at, nips at -- and they are all people who would be unanimously described by those closest to them as "very charismatic." It's as if he is allergic to a positive attitude or vivacity. Get your magnetic persona, joyful demeanor, and laid-back attitude away from this home! You are not welcome here.
The strangers Iggy chooses to bark at the most are what I would describe as "docile old ladies" and "adorable, well-behaved children"; yet he lets sketchy dudes come put fliers on our door, and borderline rob us. And don't even get me started on people who give him treats, or people who "like" him. The next door neighbor, or the nice mail man who gives him biscuits every day of his life despite a barrage of snarling; or there was that sweet little girl neighbor who would light up when she saw him and cry "Iggy, Iggy, Iggy! Iggy, Iggy, Iggy!" Those asshole are all dead to him.
In our household, even though my husband is larger and louder, Iggy is the most terrified of me and our baby girl. One chubby dimpled hand reaches out for him slowly, and you'd think it was a trained missile. But it's common for dogs to be scared of kids; I don't know what I ever did to him. I'll be at our house, doing things I can only describe as commonplace, and Iggy will shoot out of the room like a bolt of lightning, his tail between his legs. Examples: Cliff is telling me a story. "Really?" I ask. Black blurs of Iggy in my peripheral vision fleeing in fear. How dare you demand something so forcefully! I'll be watching a television show, and either laugh suddenly or wring my hands or, I don't know, have a reaction or something. Iggy goes flying! Monster, you monstrous lady! The most recent was when I sat down to do yoga, hadn't even started yet, but Iggy could sense that something pret-ty major was about to go down. He went careening into the next room.
Most of the time it's annoying; it makes me feel like I'm a really mean monster, galloping around the house and smashing ATMs through the windows. But on the plus side, it makes me feel disproportionately powerful... like Godzilla! Thanks Iggy!
