PERRY: Dog gone. Despite the pet peeves, family is unforgettable

Pawing through old tools last weekend, I came across what looked like a crumbling doggy rawhide bone.

It was an old dog bone that once belonged to a dog in our house who was unaware she was a dog.

It’s the quiet I still notice more than anything since our dog Daisy died almost 10 years ago.

For 10 years before that, Daisy was perfecting her role as the most stubborn canine on Earth. It was then that our family Bichon Frise tragically fell victim to some mysterious, costly doggy infection and departed the planet for good.

She was an uncommonly smart little dog, which was her problem.

Actually, her high level of intelligence became our problem.

We picked her out from a litter of white puff-balls in early spring one year. She was a birthday present for my then-kindergartner daughter. Among a herd of yapping puppies, Daisy would not be put off when we looked at the other siblings.

A big, red flag was ignored right then.

She loved being around people, especially kids. She loved any kind of attention, and she really loved her dinner.

A second big, red flag.

If you’ve ever seen one of these dogs, you would immediately think, “priss.” You might think she spent most of her time on the end of a shiny, pink vinyl leash hooked to a sparkling collar.

When groomed, these dogs are electric-white puff-balls. But those who’ve spent any time with the breed know that they’re funny and determined pigs in a white blanket, which is rarely white.

Daisy’s favorite couture was grayish dreadlocks adorned with a few smatterings of squirrel poop and something that died under the rose bush.

She was the queen of eye gunk and had an uncanny talent for getting little balls of doodie stuck in the fur under her tail.

For almost 11 years I had to do things to orifices on that dog that I wouldn’t do for my own kid, or even myself.

Even a hint of moisture could set off a chain reaction of smells that could make you stagger.

She was strong in many ways. My wife, Melody, the adult in our home, was determined that Daisy was going to be a well-behaved pet.

Daisy was determined that we were going to be well-behaved humans.

The battle lasted for all of her 10 years, leading to little more than an occasional truce, Melody’s accusations of head-butting and an inevitable detente.

Melody insisted that our dog never jump up on people, sit on furniture or beg for food or attention. Daisy insisted on the left side of the sofa, to be picked up rather than having to jump and chèvre on her eggs on the weekend.

She would occasionally sneak out of the backyard if there was a gate left open, only to come to the front porch and bang on the door to be let in, exasperated.

She loved to play fetch, as long as I was the fetcher.

She loved comfort. She had a pillow she would drag from place to place all day to get the best spot in the yard for sun in the winter and shade in the summer.

She loved to drink from the side of a dribbling ceramic fountain, as if we’d installed it there just for her pleasure.

The party came to an end several years ago after a particularly ugly episode involving some patio table dancing. Melody insisted that Daisy go to the women’s prison right here in Aurora.

She was sentenced to one month.

It’s a remarkable program where inmates live and work with dogs round-the-clock to teach them what’s what.

When Daisy came home, she gave us “the look” a lot and slept with her paws hanging out of the grate of her kennel.

The prisoner trainers taught us how to make this nasty, guttural barking-like sound that was supposed to be “the sign” to behave.

It worked amazingly well — for a while. After two more trips to prison — Daisy was a repeat offender — and years of faithfully grunting for compliance, Daisy agreed to stay away from the table when we ate, and she instead gave us long crusty stares and longer, loud, annoyed sighs.

I miss it.

Despite the years that have gone by since she died, I sometimes think I hear thumping tail sounds from the inside of her plastic kennel when I shuffle into the kitchen in the dark mornings. I occasionally hear the tinkling sound of her kibble hitting the porcelain breakfast bowl and her looking at me every day as if to say, “Seriously? Would you eat this crap?”

But mostly, it’s just quiet.

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