I pulled silverware out of the drawer and looked back to see a new 55-pound centerpiece in the middle of the tall dining table. She had leaped and planted herself between two delicate candle holders, tail wagging, umber eyes glowing, tongue bubblegum pink against her coal-black muzzle and white teeth. Immobile, except for that tail. She looked like a Disney version of Anubis --before he became Egypt's official god of death, but was still a mischievous jackal pup, cruising for a little chaos and destruction. Even terrifying dog gods have to start somewhere.
I informed Coda in a measured tone that she had made a bad choice and she'd have to get down. Now. Part of me worried about the height and the harm to her eight-month-old joints. Down is harder than up. I shouldn't have worried. She let a huff of air out of her lungs. Her tail stopped wagging and got a crick in it. She stared at me and didn't budge. I repeated the command, knowing I should never repeat a command. She cocked her head.
My husband, the noninterventionist, kept chopping onions. He knew the diagnosis. I had a severe case of SDS -- Second Dog Syndrome.