The Statue Dog

D. E. Larsen, DVM

Our first ceramic dog for the clinic was given to us by a client as a housewarming gift when we moved into our new clinic.

It was placed on the floor at the corner of the reception counter with the thought of it being a greeter for our canine patients.

It was a very well-done ceramic and looked almost real. Life-sized and with eyes that seemed to look directly at any approaching.

I was anxious to see the reaction of our patients. I didn’t have to wait long. The first patient through the door was Duke, with Taylor leaning back on the other end of the leash.

Duke was a large Rottweiler who easily tipped the scales at a hundred and twenty pounds. He was well disciplined and well behaved when George was around. But when he was with Taylor, he acted like he was the one giving the commands.

George was a local policeman. He wasn’t a large man, under 6 feet, but well built. Duke followed him in a precise heel position. There was never tension on the leash. With George in the room, Duke was the perfect patient.

Taylor was usually the one to bring Duke to the clinic. Taylor was petite; if her clothes were wet, she might weigh a hundred and ten pounds. She had as much control over Duke as he was willing to allow. And she was scared to death of the dog.

Duke spotted the statue pug the moment he was through the door. With the hair on the back of his neck raised, he made a beeline for the statue dog. In the process, he jerked Taylor the rest of the way through the almost-open door, almost pulling her off her feet and jamming one shoulder against the half-open door.

Duke stopped in front of the statue and, showing his teeth, let out a deep growl. When the statue didn’t respond and just continued to gaze into Duke’s eyes, Duke lunged and bit it on the side of its face.

Duke realized that he had been had. He stepped back and sniffed the statue, then, to show his disgust, he turned, hoisted his leg, and proceeded to anoint the statue with a long stream of strong-smelling urine.

Taylor stood at the reception counter, unable to intervene in Duke’s excursion. She was holding on to her shoulder and profusely apologizing for the attack and the urine. Duke returned to her side and sat down, satisfied that he had neutralized any threat from the statue.

Sam was quick to assure Taylor that there was nothing to apologize for. 

“This is nothing, we are used to some real messes to clean up,” Sam said as she headed to the back for a wet towel.

“Yes, he left his mark, and now the other dogs will be a little confused when they encounter our statue,” I said.

Duke had left a deep scratch over the statue’s right ear, and the urine had soaked into the exposed unpainted ceramic. Any dog sniffing this statue will be wondering how tough this thing really is.

It was interesting to watch the response of the various patients to our little pug statue. A few, maybe ten or fifteen percent, had a similar reaction to that which Duke had. Our statue became quite scarred as time went on.

The majority had no response at all. They obviously saw the statue but didn’t recognize it as a dog. 

A final ten or fifteen percent would approach the statue with caution, take a sniff or two, just to satisfy their curiosity, and move on. Duke’s initial anointing lingered for many years.

At one point, there was an aggressive scuffle, and our little pug suffered a fracture of one of his front legs. It was easily repaired with the magic of superglue. Maybe one day, real bones will be repaired that way.

With the years of scratches and now the leg injury, we decided to purchase a helper for our little pug. We purchased a small ceramic cocker spaniel. Not as a replacement, just as an assistant.

The cocker never seemed to attract as much attention as the pug. Maybe most of the patients were aware of our trickery, but I think the difference was in the eyes. The new statue just didn’t have the gaze like the little pug.

When we retired, the statues were placed in new homes with incredible ease. 

Photo by Nikita Telenkov on Pexels.