An Ankle Biter Among Us

A tough face to resist. 

I caved. For several weeks now, my son has been hinting, nay, downright asking for a puppy. He has been going through some medical stuff that’s pretty tough, and although I was resistant at first, I had to admit that a little critter to care for and love just might be the perfect distraction and therapy for what he is enduring.

I saw an ad in a local paper for little puppies, ¾ German Shepherd, ¼ Great Pyrenees, 100% huge. My son had mentioned he liked German Shepherds, so with some trepidation I placed the call and left a message. “Hi, I’m calling about the puppies you are selling, wondering if you have any left. Thanks.” 

Phew. No response. For fifteen minutes. Then I got a call back from a very nice young gal, “Oh, I’m so sorry! We just sold the last one this past weekend.”  

“No, it’s fine,” I said, secretly relieved to have that decision delayed. I then told her why I was looking for a puppy. That’s where I might have committed the Big Cosmic Mistake. Immediately, she told me how she had M.S. and how very good this breed of dog would be for my son. She then told me she had her doubts about the couple who took the last puppy. Apparently they had really debated about the decision and weren’t sure their landlord would agree to it. In short, I could tell, after hearing our situation, she was determined my son should have a puppy.

Sure enough, three days later, we received a call, “Good news!”

Maybe. Depends on your perspective.

Mr. Blue, aka Dog-Dog, has had a difficult adjustment. Puppy is a bit of an ankle biter and very rambunctious. We anticipated it would take a couple of weeks for the two to grow accustomed to each other.

But what really has surprised me was how much of a curmudgeon I am being about this new puppy in the house. Me! A self-proclaimed dog lover!

Blue and Puppy meet

I remember my mom once saying, “There’s a reason you are young when you have kids. They take a lot of energy!” 

I think the same can be said for puppies. Dog-Dog and I are used to our routines. We get up early, very early. He gets fed then goes back to sleep; I sip coffee and enjoy a couple hours of quiet time before the house gets up. Or at least that’s how it used to be. Now we get up early and puppy wants up too. And he does not go back to sleep. He chews slippers, drags shoes out to gnaw, bites at Dog-Dog and generally wreaks all kinds of disruptive havoc on my quiet morning.

Having a puppy requires a lot of vigilant attention. He is still being house trained and likes to chew. Catching him mid-piddle requires alertness and quick reflexes. My quiet mornings of writing are shot. Finally, this morning, I snapped. Puppy had a rawhide, Dog-Dog felt it should be his, after all he is the senior dog in this-here house, and much snarling and yipping ensued. In a fit of impatience, I yanked the offending bone out of the puppy’s mouth, scolded Mr. Blue, and perhaps threw around a few cuss words. My son apologized and got his puppy. I muttered, grabbed my running shoes and the leash, and Dog and I went on a much-needed quiet jog.

For the first mile and a half, I grumbled.

By the time I turned around to head back home, I had relaxed (well OK was winded and panting). I reminded myself why we had got the puppy in the first place. Both Dog and I would adjust to the new little critter and could handle the temporary disruption in our routine. I took a larger picture perspective and let the need to control and defend my time and routine go. By the time I walked through the front door, I was even looking forward to seeing the little furball and giving his nose a kiss.

The puppy has been a good reminder to me about how easily I can let the “I” in my agenda very quickly take over. He’s been a good lesson in letting go and enjoying a little playfulness.

I’m not sure Dog-Dog agrees with me yet. The verdict on the little whipper-snapper is still out, pending the biting and general mayhem and disruption to his turf. 

This is when Blue and I like Puppy best. 

The Tails of Two Dogs

Meet Hunter. He is the puppy from next door. Hunter is almost a year old, but in a dog's life, he's still a lanky, busy, rambunctious kid. Hunter has funky ears. He can't quite decide if he wants them both up or both down. So sometimes, to avoid the work of having to choose and to nurture his inner Zen, he does one of each and lets the decision go. 

Hunter likes to meander over from time-to-time to say hello and perhaps find a new experience for his daily constitution. Secretly, he always really hopes Dog-Dog will join him for some fun and games while he's visiting. 

This is Blue, aka, Dog-Dog. He's ten and a little grumpy in his old age. (Not that I can blame him. I'm getting kind of cranky in my old age too.) Dog-Dog was adopted when he was five. He had five whole years of multiple owners and a previous covert identity being a dog-in-training for prison convicts before he came to live with us in the mountains.He's an old and grizzled dog. Wise to the world. 

Blue came from the life of hard knocks and never learned how to play. He's mellow (mostly) and likes other dogs (for the most part), but he just isn't "into" other dogs. (Come to think of it, he's an awful lot like me.)

Sometimes Hunter walks to the very edge of his property and sits a spell to stare at Blue. Hunter is a laid-back kind of dude-dog and would never dream of just intruding without an invite. 

Blue doesn't miss a thing. He sees the kid and studies Hunter, nailing him in the spot with his steely eyes. He wants to make sure the new kid on the block understands his place. 

So Hunter sits, waits and stares and occasionally let's his attention wander to meditate on a moth, or an ant on a blade of grass. He switches the position of his ears then remembers why he's there, and begs with his little brown eyes to please, please be allowed to come over and play. 

But Blue is not one to succumb so easily. He remains on his porch, like the unflinching Clint Eastwood of dogs, and steadies his gaze. It's a stare down, a scene right out of the O.K. Corral. The wind blows, kicking up dust, and the dogs, mano-a-mano, lock eyes. Somewhere, a hawk screeches a lonely call. 

Blue cocks an eyebrow, "OK, Dog. C'mere. G'head. Make my day." 

Hunter gulps, screwing his courage to the wind, and makes his move. He stands. Blue stands. They continue... the stare. 

Hunter, sensing an opening in Blue's demeanor, takes a few tentative steps into the yard. 

Suddenly, the strain gets to Blue. He dumps his tough Clint persona and becomes the Archie Bunker of canines. "Do I have to, Mom? Do I have to play with the new kid? He's such a meathead!"

With a sigh, Blue Bunker takes pity on the kid and approaches. Tails wag and panting and mutual sniffing ensue. The skies clear. A friendship is born and all is right in the corral. Miss Kitty can come out. On second thought, perhaps she should stay hidden. Then, in an unexpected softening, miracles happen, and Dog-Dog actually plays a little. Until....

Until he decides he has had enough of this young, over-exuberant whipper-snapper. Then all bets are off. "Get off my property, kid."

"He really, really bugs me, Mom. Make him leave now."

A Plaster of Guilt

Imagine opening your front door, stepping inside, and seeing your rug covered with a white powdery substance.You do a quick review of your habits and remind yourself that as far as you can recall, you haven’t started a drug business, and then you run through a list of what the foreign powder could possibly be.

This is precisely what happened to me two years ago. After being gone for several hours, I returned to find the area carpet in my living room covered in a fine, white powder in some places, a plaster of white sticky stuff in others. I ran through a list of possible causes, and that’s when I remembered the five pound bag of flour I left on the counter.

Weimaraners, the big, gray breed of German hunting dogs, are often referred to as “counter surfers”. They are known for leading with their gastro desires and are big enough to search out counter tops when the urge hits. My husband once owned a Weimar-lab mix named Kelly. Kelly was a delight to her family, until one afternoon when they returned home from a church service. This inventive dog had managed to open the refrigerator door and devour an entire ham—Sunday’s special supper. After expressions of dismay and scolding, the family started watching the poor, bloated dog carefully for distress in case an emergency Sunday vet visit was required. Fortunately for Kelly, Weimars are also known for their fantastic capacity to digest large amounts of food. Kelly survived. And my husband’s father rigged up the refrigerator with a bungee cord so no further furtive feasting could occur.

Bungee cords also make an appearance in my house. In fact, before leaving the dog alone, we often ask each other, “Did you dog-proof the house?” Dog-proofing is a process that requires an extra five minutes planning before we can go anywhere. 

Dog-Dog, despite his lack of opposable thumbs, has learned to open the kitchen cupboard door beneath the sink where the garbage is stored. On more than one occasion, before we mastered the dog-proofing routine, he managed to drag the garbage out from beneath the sink. Not only did he drag the garbage out, but he preferred to eat his feast of culinary crap out on the area carpet in the living room. Perhaps the softer setting was more comfortable for his coffee ground and orange peel noshing. In keeping with the family tradition, we started to bungee cord the cupboard. But that didn't completely deter our poor, starving dog. He also learned to push open the Lazy Suzy cupboard, which doesn’t have a  handle to secure, so we now push a chair in front of it so he can’t reach it. Dog-Dog has us trained very well.

But back to the Great Flour Incident where, what I had finally deduced was flour, covered my floors, including a fine trail of the white stuff leading to the back of the house where the family room is located. I sighed and followed the trail back. There, on Dog-Dog’s bed, was the opened and ripped bag of evidence.

He walked out to greet me, his tail wagging, and his long floppy ears slightly back on his head in a failed attempt to appear contrite. He cocked his head and looked at me as if, I swear, to say, “What? I didn’t do anything! Honest!”  Except that the guilt was written all over his muzzle, and chest in the form of a dried, white plaster. Dog-Dog was imitating a walking, breathing piñata. No court would have acquitted him, no matter how sympathetic the judge. And I was not very sympathetic.

When we adopted our Weimie over five years ago, we knew that adopting an older dog meant we didn’t get to start from scratch. We knew providing him a forever home came with accepting a few foibles and quirks. I just never suspected I’d be replacing bags of flour, picking up garbage or getting calls from neighbors.

But that’s another post for another time.