Thanks To Good Ole' Walt

Since 1955, Disney has produced sixty films centered around dogs. Sixty! We’re all familiar with the classics, 101 Dalmatians, Lady And The Tramp, and Old Yeller, but what about Beverly Hills Chihuahua? Spooky Buddies? Or my personal favorite,  Frankenweenie?

Created by Tim Burton, Frankenweenie was first introduced in 1984 as a science fiction comedy short film and needed a G rating. So when the MPAA rated the film PG, Disney fired Burton and placed Frankenweenie on the shelf. Burton wasted no time and strung together a slew of hits in the years to follow with Pee-Wee’s Big Adventure, Beetlejuice, and Edward Scissorhands. Suddenly, in 1992, Disney had a change of heart and released Frankenweenie as a home video extra. Disney can afford to take risks. They have a failsafe model for making a successful movie, and it’s hidden in plain sight.

Dirt and I treating the world like one big dog park meant we had to conform to various societal norms. For example, he’s not allowed in the bathroom at rest stops or to steal fallen french fries from behind the counter at Wendy’s.

There is one collective behavior we’ve had trouble adopting – The general public's insatiable craving to pet every dog they see. And guess what they all have in common? They’ve all grown up assuming all dogs act like Old Yeller (pre-rabies).

It was a humid afternoon in late July – a Saturday. We were in the check-out line at Lowe’s. A computer problem caused the line to swell with people. Dirt lay calmly at my feet. His leash was snug under my boot. I was sorting through the Reese’s Cups to find the least melted pack when a lady – mid-thirties, athletic build, her kids following – managed to sneak up behind us. Her hand was inches from Dirt's tail as she bent down…

“Awwwwww,” she moaned in a voice typically reserved for newborn babies, “you’re too precious.” Her index finger grazed a hair on Dirt’s tail, startling us both. Dirt snapped to his feet and nipped her on the nail of her index finger.

“Oh my god!” The lady yelled out. “You’re dog is crazy! Why would you bring a dog in here that bites!” She held her wounded fingernail in her other hand as the scene around us started to develop.  “What's wrong with you? That dog is scary” All eyes now locked on us.

An arm flung straight out in front of my face, dividing me, and the newly nipped. It was the lady in line behind us. Tall, mid-sixties, noticeable southern draw, baseball cap. She witnessed the ordeal and felt compelled to intervene...

“Now, mam, don’t you even start. That’s a Blue Heeler, acting like a Blue Heeler, and was laying there just fine, minding his own, until you snuck up and startled him.” She reached her hand down and scratched Dirt on the head. “You’re a little cutie, aren’t you? Sweet as Sunday supper,” She said in her babyish voice, looking at Dirt. She continued, “He’s a country dog, and we’re in the country. You want me running up behind one of your cute kids and rubbing my hands all over em’? I didn’t think so. Just consider this lesson well-learned.”

All eyes were now locked on the newly nipped as she walked away without saying a word.

With my eyes wide and my jaw on the floor, I kept waiting for the hidden cameras to jump out. I couldn’t believe what I just witnessed.

Dirt's volunteer defense attorney turns to me, “Don’t you just hate when people do that? I’ve got two blues and one red waiting on me at home. They won’t even let my husband near me most nights, thank God.” She said laughingly. “You know what did it, don’t you? It’s all those damn Disney movies. Ruined it for all the real dogs.”

And she’s right. Disney did ruin it. Thanks to good ole’ Walt and his endless, tear-jerking narratives, we’ve all grown up in a world where bears sing and dance, and every deer is a Bambi.  Whether we realize it or not, Disney played a considerable role in our childhood.

When we create narratives, we remove reality. Not always, but often. We tend to see only what we want to see. And it only makes sense. We do it to survive. The world is too scary without narratives. Problems arise when we allow our childhood narratives to navigate our life as an adult. Trust me, as a boy who grew up in the nineties, I dreamed of my parents leaving me Home Alone to fend off two would-be robbers. Obviously, that's far from reality.

Dirt only allows three people to pet him, and they know who they are. But even then, he’ll let them know if he likes it. When I’m overwhelmed or down in the dumps, Dirt reminds me it’s ok to slow down if I'm anxious, speed up if I’m depressed, and nip if I’m startled. We’re the only ones in charge of our own narratives. So that afternoon in Lowe’s, Dirt was allowed to feel however he needed. And so was I… pissed I dropped a perfect, non-melted Reese’s Cup.