The World Economy According to One Doggy Gate

By Carol Mell, 9-10-08

	Caption: Otto, the slobbermeister, and Tazzy, the yapper, now ride behind a doggy gate that came all the way from China.

Dogs and pickups go together like apple pie and ice cream, like blue corn and green chile, like—well you get the idea. I admit that having a dog rattling around in the back of the pickup is downright dangerous but for us Westerner’s danger has always been just part of the fun and we wouldn’t want our dogs to feel left out. When our ten kids pile onto one ATV or climb mountains in a lightning storm or chew gum in church we just love the risk, the feeling of being unencumbered by any man’s law.

In my own life though after adding a few kids to my passel of dogs, I had to give up the pickup idea. Now that the babies are in college I thought there’d be plenty of room for the dogs in my newest SUV but I’ve gotten civilized over the years because I just didn’t like Otto, the slobbermeister, blocking the rear view mirror with his tail while his drool trickled down my shoulder. I’d turn to see if it was safe to merge and get an earful of dog lick.

Tazzy, the little peke-a-poo-a-terry-huahua, always clamored for my lap, her little excited claws dug into my thighs, her yapping gave me a headache. I could no longer tolerate muddy dog prints on the back seat or the tornado of dog hairs swirling around whenever I opened a window.

I could have tried training. I’m a great admirer of Cesar Millan, the Dog Whisperer, but I haven’t had much luck with the whispering thing. Truth be told, I’m more of a dog yeller. Old dog yeller, that’s me. Between yelling and yapping I’m not always the winner.

Over the years I’ve had to get more civilized, put the dog on a leash, take off your boots in the house, wash your hands, wash your dishes, everything in its place, you know the drill. So last time I was in the big city I went looking for one of those doggy gates for my car. I found in one of those pet department stores that is bigger than any store in Taos a genuine metal guaranteed rattle-free dog barrier. The box said, “No tools or Engrish necessary,” the instructions said.

The pudgy young salesman said, “Yeah, this one works great. It’ll last forever.”

Back home I laid out the pictorial instructions.

Put the bolt through the hole.

Slide the locking nut over the tip of the bolt.

Screw on the wing nut—only the bolt wasn’t long enough to catch the nut. The bolt was one-eighth an inch too short.

Three blood blisters, four broken nails and one hot head later I was cursing the man, it must have been a man, who designed that clap-trap, good-for-nothing, rip-off doggy gate.

“Who in the world was trying to save corporate money by making the bolts just slightly too short?” I asked God in his heaven.

I blamed the dad-blamed economy and felt the sudden urge to join the steaming protesting throngs at the next World Trade Organization meeting wherever that may be. I reckoned some international flunky somewhere had carefully calculated how to save one penny per one thousand gates at the expense of my sanity.

My husband came home about then, saw me jumping up and down on top of the two sides of that contraption trying to use my weight to squeeze the two sides together and make that bolt stretch.

“Why don’t you just go to the store and get some longer bolts?” he asked.

The nerve of that guy.

“You don’t understand. The point of all this is that this is a kit with all parts included,” I said bouncing on the gate for emphasis, hoping to bend it into conformity. “These bolts,” I grunted, “are supposed to fit.”

In the end I did go to the store and buy a longer bolt but I wasn’t happy doing it. I put the thing together, put it in the car, and took the dogs for a spin. The barrier worked fine only-- it rattled.

Several installations later I gave up on the rattle and while the yapping still gives me a headache, the dogs are out of the rain and I’m out of the drool.

You are danged if you do and danged if you don’t so you might just as well.