Bravo’s nemesis is a 10-month old Giant Schnauzer named Celine Dion. They met when Bravo was just 16 weeks old and right away, she let him know who was boss, barking and snapping until Bravo got so scared and confused that he jumped into my arms and then tried to climb inside my coat. I couldn’t blame him, Celine Dion the dog was much like her namesake: loud, intense, and not particularly good at reading the room.
All jokes aside, I consider Bravo’s conflict avoidance one of his best qualities. He never starts a fight and he isn’t one to pile on when other dogs go at it. Even though he’s bigger and stronger than most dogs at just six months, he’s not one to prove it. Until Tuesday that is, when an Irish Setter, name unknown, bit Bravo on the tail and then followed it up with a sucker swat to the face.
I wasn’t there to see it but Valtteri said that Bravo reacted as he normally would, yipping and howling before running to the safety of Valtteri’s coat. But before he could get there, the Setter came back for another nip. And that’s when, in Valtteri’s words, Bravo “lost it,” growling and gnashing like he was working the night shift at a junk yard.
Truth be told, I was a little happy to hear that Bravo stood up for himself. Turns out he’s not a weakling who’s afraid of bullies so much as a big dog who can’t be bothered with some bitches.
Valtteri and I both have the gift of hyperbole. Except that I exaggerate during the retelling of a story for effect, to heighten the drama and make things more entertaining. You could say that I do this for you, the audience. I am looking out for your enjoyment.
My husband, on the other hand, exaggerates because he wants you to know what a martyr he is. It might be raining on his way to the bank, but in his telling, it was pouring, nearly hailing. By the time he gets there, he is just thankful the place is still standing and that he doesn’t have a concussion. The bank might also happen to be closed, which is objectively the funniest part of the story, but for some reason Valtteri will leave that detail out. He wants you to focus on the inconvenience of the hail and his heroic reaction to it.
This is why I was annoyed to have missed the dog fight. Because Valtteri never knows which parts of the story to focus on. His retelling of the brawl was all about the people: How he stepped in and pushed the dogs apart. How the other owner grabbed his dog by the collar while Valtteri held Bravo. How that person and Valtteri decided to release both dogs once they were calmer so that they could work it out themselves.
If I was there, you’d have a much more entertaining version of events—a play by play of how Bravo, dressed in a burgundy snow suit that just so happens to look like a boxing robe, whopped an Irish Setter with a tail fetish. I would have painted you a picture, about the look in the Setter’s eyes when she realized she had picked a fight with a dog four times her size who hates getting his nails clipped. Dare I say I would have gathered quotes from other witnesses, most of whom know Bravo as “The dog who does not bark.”
But no. I wasn’t there. I was home. Doing yoga. Through an app. One Celine Dion album away from acting my age.
In any case, once Valtteri debriefed me on the situation and I was satisfied that Bravo hadn’t broken his tail, I allowed my natural instinct to kick in—which is to say that I pointed out all the ways my husband mishandled the situation.
“You’re not supposed to get in between two fighting dogs,” I said.
“Why not?” he asked.
“They might bite you?” I replied. It was really more of a question because I actually had no idea what I was talking about. Don’t get between two fighting dogs, is just one of those things that I’ve heard a number of times and accepted as true, like how the sky is blue and the best milk is made from oats.
“I think it also might just amp them up more?” I added. “Because you’re bigger? And they think you want to fight too?” I was just guessing, extrapolating based on critiques I’ve heard at the dog park when people pick up a small dog mid-fight or put one dog on a leash while the other is still loose. The other owners offer this commentary under their breath with such distain, as though this is all common sense. Of course, you don’t pick up a small dog that is about to be walloped by an adult Doberman! Would you eat cereal with a fork? Do you brush your teeth with your feet? Are you still drinking dairy milk?
These are points that I laugh off nervously, the same way I do when people complain to me about immigrants who don’t speak the local language or women who won’t take their husband’s name. They’re talking about me, to me, giving me the advice I need disguised as a criticism of others. Oddly enough, it’s how I make most of my friends.
In any case, a quick Google search revealed that the dog park jurists have a point. In addition to not getting between two warring dogs or carrying one off like a helicopter parent, you also should not put your face anywhere near the fight.
“Did you do that?” I asked Valtteri.
“Did I break up the dog fight face first?” he replied. “No I did not.”
That’s a relief. God knows Valtteri has the prettier face between us.
“So you used your hands?” I asked. “Like a peasant?”
“What else was I supposed to use?” he asked.
I scanned the article. “Well it says here, you could use a glass of water,” I replied, motioning the tossing of a cup of water on Bravo’s head. “Just throw it on them.”
“Well I didn’t have a cup of water,” Valtteri said, rolling his eyes. “Besides,” he added. “It was minus fourteen degrees. He would freeze.”
This, again, demonstrates Valtteri’s method of exaggeration, insisting on using Celsius just to get the numbers low and painting himself as a would-be murderer. This despite the fact that he the drama and urgency of real-life fight to work with.
“OK well, another option,” I suggested. “Would be to throw a blanket on the dogs.” I looked up from my phone. “That’s like the opposite of the water. Because it’s warm.”
I don’t think it was my imagination that Valtteri glanced at the couch in our living room and the blanket tossed in the corner, most likely considering if he could get away with throwing it over my head at this very moment.
“I’m serious,” I insisted, showing him the screen. “Dogs won’t fight what they can’t see. Hence the blanket.”
“Well I didn’t have a blanket either.”
I scrolled through the article. “Well did you have two metal objects, such as garbage can lids?”
“No.”
“A large piece of wood?”
“No.”
“How about a chair?”
“Why would I have that?” he asked, exasperated. “Why would I bring a chair to the dog park?”
“You don’t have to get defensive,” I sniffed. “Just because you weren’t prepared.”
Valtteri sighed. “Are there any ways you can break up a dog fight without special equipment?” he asked.
I looked at the article again. “Well you could try The Wheelbarrow Method.”
“I’m almost afraid to ask,” Valtteri said. “But what is that?”
“It’s when you grab the dog by the hind legs and just drag him away from the fight,” I said.
“Let me see that,” Valtteri said, snatching my phone out of my hand. I know that he thought that I was making it up, but I wasn’t. I was perhaps reordering some of the content for effect and paying outsized attention to some minor details—which by the way is how you tell a good story—but it was all there, garbage can lids and all.
“How is this helpful?” Valtteri demanded, rage scrolling through the article in search of just one option that didn’t involve a trip to the hardware store or a Code Blue reaction from the entire dog park. “The best idea is the wheelbarrow one but that only works if the other people do it too. What am I supposed to do, just shout “WHEELBARROW METHOD!” and expect people to know what I’m talking about?”
“Humor me,” I said. “How would you say that in Finnish?”
“Kottikärrytapa!”
I smiled. This is what I love most about living in Finland. Even when I don’t have anything to work with, I can make it a story worth telling just putting one line in the local language. Hyperbole at its finest.
Your comment about Celine made me laugh out loud. Thanks for cheering me up this morning!
one of these days i’m going to sneak a video of celine dion the schnauzer just barking away like the bully that she is. oh celine… i hate her, but i respect her. just like the real celine dion.
I’m really going to need Valtteri to yell WHEELBARROW METHOD for the reaction alone 🤣
right?! my god, he didn’t let me name the dog HAM it’s the least he could do now. WHEELBARROW METHOOOOOOODDDDD.
I agree with your method of story telling. He did not focus on the correct details. I love that he reacts to your suggestions though. My husband doesn’t do that anymore. I texted him that Target didn’t have any frozen turkeys so I bought a piñata and he doesn’t react!
Also Bravo is very handsome.
thank you. i also feel that i have the superior story telling method. (Sometimes valtteri tries to tell me that i have the prettier face too and i’m like, please, stay in your lane. i’ll be the judge of that and everything else.)
i’m sorry that your husband doesn’t react. i guess it just means that you need to raise the stakes. have you considered an exotic live animal? sound system? my good friend’s husband wasn’t paying close enough attention to her at a work event and they left with a silent auction “prize” of a trip for two to an eco resort in costa rica. he learned his lesson WAY BEFORE the snake came through their bedroom window. JUST A THOUGHT.
I also agree that bravo is very handsome!
Bravo is gorgeous! And I approve of his recognition of his superiority and therefore lack of need to fight.