Why dogs need butt cheeks

I’m here! Utah, that is. So far so good—mountains appear not to have moved too much; house is where I left it; weather’s still dry; and best of all the dog remembers who I am.

I have been toying with the best way to do this. Blogs require thought, you know. Foresight. A master plan. Following some sort of chronology, I should be posting first about driving west with my mom. But something happened yesterday that requires posting about IMMEDIATELY. Even though it happened after the drive west. If this is too much for you, my apologies. But it must be done.

Yesterday was the day I officially turned older (it happens everyday, but it’s only official once-a-year). To celebrate, mom and I headed out on the desert, a family pastime for this particular Clan. Our excuse was that I need to collect some desert-y plants to grow in a greenhouse back in Midwestia. We were successful, getting some things I thought for sure we wouldn’t find.

And the desert was beautiful. The rocks were in fine form, simultaneously sparkling like it was going out of style and holding completely still. The cheat grass was looking dry as ever; the sagebrush was a lustrous shade of sage; the wind blew like only the wind can; and the antelope apparently bred like jackrabbits this year. We saw hundreds. Literally.

Antelope are amazing critters. They’ve been clocked at well over 60 on numerous occasions. They’re cocky too. They know they’re the fastest thing in North America and they haven’t forgotten that they outlived the cheetahs in the last ice age. They like to run—there’s no predator fast enough that they need to run, but they clearly like the feel of the wind on the horns. It’s not unusual to see one race a train. As the two barrel across the Great Basin, the antelope will at some point pull ahead and dash across the tracks in front of the engine in some sort of Antelope version of Chicken.

When you’re out on the desert, this can be a source of great entertainment. Find a herd of spirited antelope that are reasonably close to the road. Drive beside them for a few minutes. Put on a show kind of like you’re a drag racer (even though you may be in, say, a lifted Jeep Cherokee with an over-sized winch on the front). Maybe rev the engine a little and shout something like, “Uh. Nice ride, grandma.” Perhaps blare a little Beach Boys out the windows… that part where they say “Go Granny Go” (mind you, those windows should only be rolled down about 1.37 inches—I’ll explain why later). Before too long the antelope will be hurling insults back, making inside jokes about you to each other, and flashing their rear ends in your general direction. And then they’ll start running. A trot at first. An easy canter so that they can cross their eyes and spit raspberries at you while they jog. Speed up the engine a little now… just a little. They’ll speed up too, as they turn around to run backwards, showing off for the dumasses on the road. Now speed up a little more… just a little at a time. Check the speedometer now—what are you doing? Maybe 25? Good. Add a little more speed. Hurl an insult or two just to keep them interested. When they stop skipping and frolicking and decide its time to show you who runs things around here, the game’s on. At this point you have two goals: 1) don’t let them get in front of you and 2) don’t hit them.

What, you may be wondering at this point, does any of this have to do with dogs having butt cheeks? Hold on, it’ll make sense in a minute.

We got our little antelope buddy up to about 45 miles an hour through the sagebrush before she got bored, put on a little afterburner and sped across the road in front of us. It was a good race. She toyed with us forever before making her move, and honestly never really tried (you know they’re trying when they put the visor down over their eyes, which are at that point a foot above the ground). Mom and I were whooping and hollering in the front seat, dishing out insults and making complete fools of ourselves (one of the joys of the desert—no one can see you make a fool of yourself because no one else is there). We failed to notice that Jack, in the backseat, was also hurling derisions out the window, which was rolled down 1.38 inches. We failed also to notice that Jack had misinterpreted our plan, and was going on the assumption that we had finally decided to help him in his cause to Catch an Ungulate, by giving him a head start. When he threaded his twelve inch deep chest through the cracked window, launched himself from the jeep at 45 miles an hour, did a complete somersault in the white dirt at the side of the road, and took off through the sage brush after the quickly disappearing speedster, however, he got our attention.

We skidded the car to a halt and ran back for him. My first thought had been one of pure sickness as I saw him roll. My second thought, as I watched him take off after the antelope, was one of pure unadulterated anger. Thankfully it was a hot day and both feelings evaporated quickly. He came trotting back to the car seconds after we’d stopped it, a dusty shade of white with two brown eyes—apparently no worse for the wear. We checked him over, certain he’d broken something. Two scratches on his nose, nothing seemingly bent or out of place, but a dejected look on his face at having missed his best chance ever of catching a hoofed mammal. Driving 15 minutes further down the road gave both mom and I a chance to mull recent events over. Neither of us could believe that Jack hadn’t seriously hurt himself. When we pulled the car over for a more thorough check, we found that his rear end was a bloody mess. Poor guy had skinned his sphincter. Really really skinned it. And that, my dear readers, is why dogs need butt cheeks. So that when they leap from car windows after jaunty antelope at 45 miles an hour, tails held high, they don’t skin this very important bodily orifice.

As mom commented later: “It’s a good thing he’s been fixed”

Below: Typical view of antelope, telling you silently but clearly what they think of you.

Below: Video from a few years back of an antelope race (45 mph). The antelope won.