The weirdest dog in the world

Throughout the course of my life, I have always had dogs.

There was Crackers, a white poodle-mix my dad rescued from the pound out of pity. Oreo, my childhood dog, a pretty black mutt with a heart of gold. Dharma, my red Dobie, came along in my high school years. When I moved south, Barney showed up. Barney was a scruffy roadside stray who ended up gracing us with his presence for 18 years.

When I got married, my husband Jon already had two dogs, American Bulldogs named Thor and Raina. Thor passed away young from kidney disease, but Raina made it to 14 before cancer got her — not bad for a bulldog.

By this time, Jon and I had two kids and we wanted a pup the boys could grow up with. Enter Freya, our Saint Bernard.

At this point. I was content. After all, even though she had perfect manners, Freya was still a big dog. I didn’t think our house was big enough for another. Jon on the other hand, still had puppy fever. We have two boys, we should have two dogs, he reasoned.

He unintentionally had his wish granted when my Dad unexpectedly passed away in 2023 and we took in Tally, his miniature Schnauzer. That, I thought, would be the end of it.

I was wrong.

In Jon’s eyes, Tally didn’t count. She was tiny, she was yappy. When he said he wanted another dog, he meant another big dog.

So we did what any normal, rational couple who already had two kids, two dogs, a cat, and live within city limits would do: We got a Great Pyrenees puppy.

I know, I know …

I truly don’t know what I was thinking, it was a complete moment of weakness. Never in my life did I intend to have three dogs at once — especially not when two of them are well over 100 pounds each.

But let me tell you about Sif: First off, she’s a gem. Just a complete sweetheart. However, she is the weirdest dog I’ve ever had.

For one? She came house broken. I don’t mean that she was easy to house train — I mean that from Day 1, as an 8-week-old puppy, she’s never had an accident in the house. And she’s a year and a half now. And no — we didn’t crate her. I can’t explain it, but my rugs and hardwood floors are grateful.

Now, you might think if she naturally just knows not to use the bathroom inside, she must have had a lot of experience indoors before we brought her home. She did not. She’s a straight-up farm dog from rural South Carolina. And it shows.

Inside, she has no idea how to behave. Now, I don’t mean she’s chewing everything and being all unruly, that’s simply not true. She’s very gentle and quiet most of the time. It’s more of a spacial awareness issue. To Sif, the shortest distance between two points is the only way to go and societal norms mean nothing.

It’s not unusual to see her come over the back of the couch rather than walk around it, or curl up and sleep on top the coffee table because that’s where the sunny patch from the window falls. She just doesn’t see the big deal about it.

I do have to kick her out of the kitchen when I’m cooking because I can’t keep her off the counters no matter what I’ve tried. That one time she ate an entire rotisserie chicken — prompting an emergency vet call — taught me that.

She is happiest when she’s prowling around the backyard with my youngest son, keeping a careful eye out for danger from her spot on top of the picnic table. She also enjoys howling at sirens and the train whistle and going for walks — until she decides that’s far enough and just … lays down on the sidewalk (or better yet, in the neighbor’s ornamental grass.)

Together, one might think Freya, Sif and Tally make an odd pack — but I have discovered my life is the better for it. If Freya is the regal queen, and Tally is the spoiled princess, then surely Sif is our court jester.

And who doesn’t love a good laugh?