Tales of the Tribe: Mojo

Mojo is our big black alpha dog. He's a massive, long-legged purebred Black Labrador, ten years old now and greying in the muzzle. He's tending to the fat side now, and as of his last vet visit weighed one hundred and twenty-something pounds. He has a big barrel chest, droopy and slobbery lips, and enormous expressive eyes.

Mojo is a genius as dogs go. He has a natural ability to open doors. Many times he has been left inside the house, and when I return, I find the back door open and he's lounging around outside. Opening doors that swing outward is natural and understandable, and seems to involve some combination of nosing the latch and pushing, but eerily, Mojo can handle inward-swinging doors as well. I have never actually witnessed him doing this, but I find it kind of creepy. I am reminded of the hunter in Jurassic Park who, upon being successfully stalked by a velociraptor, mutters: "Clever girl...."

Not that Mojo needs doors to get into or out of places. When he was a younger, sprightlier dog, his little sister Madison came into heat, and Mojo went into a frenzy. He was locked in the garage for the day. When Bon returned, she found that Mojo had broken through sheetrock, insulation and facing brick to escape the garage and get at his sister. Shortly thereafter Mojo's balls were removed. As big as oranges they were, Bon notes, perhaps with a hint of wistfulness.

One other time Bonnie returned home to discover Mojo out of the house on the front lawn. Mojo is the only dog for whom escaping isn't a big problem. The other dogs, if they get out, insist on running around like idiots and having adventures (read: rummaging trash, eating dead animals). Mojo, on the other hand, likes to stick around the house. Sometimes he enjoys opening a gate so the other dogs will escape, and then he hangs around the house and tattles on them. Anyway, Bonnie came home and found him out, with no doors open, so she put him inside. A second later he was out again. Investigating, Bonnie found he had broken out a narrow window and had hopped through it to hang out on the lawn. To my knowledge that's the only time he's done that.

Mojo has proclaimed himself Emperor of All Dogs. He's not a particularly benevolent emperor either. Any toys are Mojo's toys. Any food is Mojo's food unless he's not hungry. If the space he wants to walk in is occupied by another dog, Mojo tells that dog in no uncertain terms that it is standing in the wrong place and would be well advised to relocate. Mojo has become a grumpy old man and growls at the drop of a hat; his temper is partially kept under control by medication, but he's apt to snarl anyway. He's gentle with the people he loves, but he bosses his minion-dogs without mercy. The other dogs usually get out of his way, but sometimes they talk back, and then a fight often results. These fights are sometimes spectacular in their sound and fury, but rarely result in injury.

Mojo particularly likes stuffed animals and rubber ducks. Sometimes he just likes to hold them. Other times he likes to rip them apart. Most of the time he just kind of gnaws on them. Mojo doesn't care whether it's a designated dog-toy or not, he wants all toys for himself. He knows perfectly well what toys are off-limits, but he covets them anyway -- he just goes about acquiring them on the sly. When I'm distracted by reading to Katherine, for instance, he has been known to nonchalantly drift into her room, look around, and attempt to snag a Garfield on his way out. He also patrols the bathtub, and any rubber ducks that are left within reach are later found covered with slobber and under a couch. When Mojo loves a toy, he keeps it in pretty good shape, but if he annoys one of his sisters, she is apt to abscond with his toy and bite its head off out of spite.

Mojo is my best pill-taker. All of the dogs have received medication at one time or another, typically in pill form. The best way to pill the dogs is to hide the pill in a hotdog or piece of cheese or hamburger bun and feed it to them. The nightly pilling ritual is a time of spasmodic glee, where enormous hounds crowd around me demanding their bit of cheese (all dogs get some, whether they need a pill or not). Mojo sits very nicely and always swallows his pill without making a fuss. The other dogs leap or beg or spit out their pills, but Mojo has good manners.

Eric loves Mojo the best. When he gets home from school he makes a beeline for Mojo. He likes to sit next to Mojo and babble at him, making squeaky noises or gurgly noises and just generally making strange sounds. It drives me crazy, but Mojo eats it up. Mojo leans into the boy and follows him around the house. Sometimes, when the boy is lying on the floor, Mojo flops down next to him, rolls over to face him, and puts his forepaws around Eric's neck. Eric finds these dog-hugs especially endearing. Mojo seems to like it too, and has this silly dog-grin on his face with his tongue lolling out.

Mojo is starting to show signs of aging. He broke a leg a few years back. He had escaped the house and, unusually, had gone exploring; it was nighttime and his black coat was practically invisible, so a car hit him. His leg was pinned and set and seemed to heal fine, but he's a bit gimpy now and shows signs of arthritis. When he's feeling good he can jump up on beds and couches, but on worse days he does so stiffly, or fails to make the jump and falls, limping off with his pride deeply wounded. He coughs a lot -- we think it's allergies as opposed to heartworm, but all the dogs are on the preventative medication. He also has a lot of skin tags and fatty lumps scattered over his hide. The most recent biopsy said none of it was cancerous, but one of these days that might happen. Most seriously, Mojo has epilepsy, and although this can be controlled with Phenobarbitol, this disease is known to shorten the lifespans of dogs. At 10 years of age, Mojo has lived a pretty long life already anyway. He seems to be in reasonably good health, so nobody expects him to fall over dead tomorrow, but we don't know how much longer we'll have the big guy around.

Mojo has many nicknames. The most common is The Foofer. I don't know where this name came from; it's almost appallingly cutesy, but it seems to fit him well. This is often abbreviated to The Foof or Foofy. Variations on 'Mojo' are often common, ranging from Mojy to Mo-Mo. I like to mix things up a bit with 'Mojito' or 'Mojohowitz', or just call him The Big Boy. If Mojo could speak, it would probably be with a clipped British Brigadeer-General accent, commanding the troops with immense dignity. I sometimes put a voice to his words. For instance, when Eric is sitting at the table eating, Mojo will sometimes watch him. "See here, my lad," I'll say, "the Scot's Guard isn't one for begging, mind you, but the regiment enjoys a cheesy dietary supplement from time to time." And then Eric will respond exactly as if Mojo had talked to him and feed the dog. My children desperately want to feed the dogs scraps from the table during dinner, something I discourage. Mojo may have good manners, but his little brothers and sisters can be complete pests.