The male ego is a fragile thing.

And none more so than that of a little Jack Russell Terrier.

Scooby was having one of those weeks.  It all started on Monday when I was cleaning out the

 refrigerator.

Normally, this is a happy occasion for my two dogs.  Cleaning out the refrigerator means treats, usually of the meat variety.

I took out a small sandwich bag of leftover beef and distributed it between the two.  I stayed there because, as in all things around here, if a referee is required, it is usually me doing the refereeing.

Scooby ate his portion a little too fast.  He stopped suddenly, kind of crab walked over to the grass, acted as if he was going to vomit and then emitted the loudest, most stereotypical, John Belushi-style BURP.  I mean, I could not possibly believe this sound was coming out of my little dog.  I’m sure it was heard throughout the neighborhood and may have even registered seismic activity.

Then, before I could laugh at that, because he had used all of his oxygen in dispelling the enormous gas bubble, Scooby tipped over onto his side.

It was in slow motion.  You could have spelled out T-I-M-B-E-R in the time it took him to land.  As he rocked a little back and forth with his little legs straight out the only thing I could think was: this is a grand time to panic.

In my first-aid book, I don’t know about yours, but in mine, step one is to panic but the caveat is to do so quickly and then get on to step two.  So, in thinking I had somehow killed my dog, I screamed his name just in case he forgot it.

Then, I scooped him up and pounded on his back and rubbed his tummy and he turned around and gave me a look that said, “You know, you were more help when you were trying to help me remember my name.”

He was fine.  But the evening didn’t get much better.

You see, that evening I watched my Chargers appear on the same field as (notice I said “appear on the same field as” and did not say “play football with) the Oompa Loompas.  I know they kept calling them the Denver Broncos but I know Oompa Loompa socks when I see them.  Apparently, the sight of those socks so stunned my Chargers, they tipped over onto their sides like Scooby and well, I did not take it well.

Which meant there was a whole lot of yelling coming from our living room that evening and Scooby’s evening nap was affected. 

The next day Scooby and I went on our walk and we passed a couple of neighborhood dogs we see frequently.  One of them kind of attacked Scooby.

I don’t think she meant any harm because she knows us and she just kind of mouthed the back of his neck.  Scooby screamed as if he had just had a leg cut off but I couldn’t see any blood or sign of a wound.  I think the dog, being a female, maybe thought Scooby was a puppy and she was trying to pick him up by the scruff of his neck to put him back with the litter.  Or possibly, because she is a bird dog, she thought Scooby was a wounded duck.

Either way, it was extremely embarrassing to a little dog who sees himself as a smokin’ virile hunk of canine manhood and who thinks he’s approximately the size of a Newfoundland. 

Well, I had to do something.  Scully, our little poodle mix, had a grooming appointment for later that day.  I let Scooby ride in the car with us and I arranged our route so that we drove by a local cattle herd. 

Four times.

Each and every time, Scooby snarled and viciously barked the Moo Mob into bovine submission.  He protected us as only a very brave little dog can do.

When I put them into the backyard, I noticed the strut was back.

The ego was healed.  Until the next time Scully kicked his butt.