The Farnival: Where Dogs Play

Adriana and Rosie

Adriana, our four- month- old mutt, must be experiencing the equivalent of a toddler’s terrible twos. Every time I turn around that little freak is up to no good, scrounging through trash cans, running wild with socks, or returning from the mosh pit covered in tree sap and Tennessee red clay.

Our foster dogs Mellie and Rosie, both decent-sized yearlings, fifty and sixty pounds respectively, follow that puppy around like she’s the pack leader. Unfortunately, that means they not only egg on Ade’s mischievous streak, but they often assist in her crimes.

Their latest joy is toilet paper. If either Mason or I use the bathroom and absentmindedly leave the TP on the holder – where it’s supposed to be – we can kiss it goodbye.

Yesterday, Adriana streaked past my office door with a whole roll clamped in her little maw, white banner streaming behind her like she just finished a fifty-yard dash. Her two buddies, Mellie and Rosie, tromped behind, wearing goofy ecstatic expressions.

All three of those hellions know that ripping up TP isn’t Farnival approved, but if anything that knowledge seems to incense their gusto. Now, the game has become shredding the roll into as many pieces as possible before they get busted. I’ve come upon white cottony scraps clumped in the wet grass, scattered across the living room floor, stuffed between the couches, hidden under the bed, and even drowning in the water bowl.

Every time I catch them, I reprimand and they act shamed, three pairs of ears tucked low, but in their defense, my voice probably doesn’t resonate with firmness. To be frank, it’s hard to appear strict when my heart is really doing cartwheels. For me, playing animals equal happy dogs.

During the past year, I’ve come to understand that playing, even among puppies, is a privilege for homeless animals; the majority of abandoned dogs have to learn how to have fun, as though it’s a luxury. Like Maslow’s hierarchy of needs applied to animals: dogs will only play when the basics like food, water, shelter, and safety are regular ingredients.

Just off the top of my head, I can picture several foster mutts that initially treated having fun – meaning romping with other dogs, by themselves, or with toys – like a foreign concept; remember Frida living under the Honda for 24 hours, Pippi camping by the gate, Jim Bob obsessively running in circles with a clacking jaw or Bentley greeting every dog he met by attacking anything within biting range? It took these poor curs weeks and sometimes months to learn the thrill of playing.

Joyfully, the energy from our current pack is nothing like any of the mutts mentioned above. In fact, at this exact moment (a moment I’m going to savor for as long as possible), the opposite is true; from the second Ade, Mellie, and Rosie got together, they’ve acted downright impish.

I’m not saying I’m thrilled about cleaning up toilet paper confetti every other day, but it feels damn good giving a few animals a place to play.