Attention Beta Mammals,

    When Adam, our youngest, moved out, and my nest was well and truly empty I said, “Don’t worry about me, buster, I’ll be just fine. I’m getting a dog and naming it Adam.”  

    Well, I did and I didn’t.  I got a dog.  But I named her Coco Chanel (like the French chick), and I fell in love with her—the dog, not Coco Chanel.  Although I do enjoy her perfume.

    My dog is part Golden Retriever, part Chocolate Lab, part Australian Shepherd and part genius.  She’s so smart that if she had opposable thumbs she could drive my truck.  Her markings are very unusual and they make people stop, stare, and say weird things like, “What kind of dog is that? Is that a Malamute?”  And I say, “Nope, she’s a Mala-mutt.”  I’m a  smart-aleck that way.

    The problem is that I picked Coco out of the litter because of the way she looked.  But in truth, I’ve had to start watching that Dog Whisperer guy because of the way she acts.  She’s a pushy Mala-mutt bitch.  Did I mention smart?  So smart, in fact, that there’s been a real battle for leadership of our little pack.  She’s bossy, mouthy, fidgety, and hard-headed.  Well, so am I, sister, so am I.

    Being part retriever she feels the constant need to bring me things: the channel changer, my new Michael Kors’ leather sandal, hoof clippings from the horses, Conner’s ba-ba bottle, the next door neighbor’s dead duck carcass—you know, things.  Of course before she retrieves these things completely, she chews them into complete submission, and then she dumps the mangled mess in front of me.  

    She has a big, scary bark and a deep desire to protect me from cats, snakes, lizards, butterflies, crickets, moths, and the next door neighbor’s ducks.  She’s managed to pull me off my feet only once, however.  And in fairness, I was wearing heels and the grass was slick.

    Be it known that I have been doing my Dog Whisperer homework.  I own my space.  I puff out my chest.  I don’t make eye contact. It’s done wonders with my husband, Sherwood.  

    The dog seems to be getting the message too.  When I walk into the room Coco lowers her head in submission, circles around me tentatively, and sniffs my crotch politely.  It’s official; I am the alpha female.

    It makes me sad though, because I’m more than a little tired of being the alpha female and having the pack depend on me to find the tasty caribou carcass or decide whether it’s going to be Chinese or pizza on “take-out” night.  Sigh.  Well I have to be the pack leader, or I have to watch everyone mill around in mindless, pointless circles trying to figure out if we should choose the free liter of Pepsi or the free egg rolls on an order that totals over twenty bucks.  Get the Pepsi, for goodness sake, nobody eats the egg rolls except Adam, and Coco—of course.

    Here’s to a week full of pack solidarity, calm submission, and tasty caribou treats, and may your pack live long and prosper.  

    Linda (Alpha Mom) Zern  

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