Puppy Love

If you're wondering why I haven't blogged for a while, here is the reason:

Persimmon, 7 weeks

OK, so it’s happened:  I’ve become one of those annoying people who post a zillion pictures of his or her dog on Facebook.  I mention the dog in every email I write.  She sneaks artfully into conversations with friends, and she weasels her way into every aspect of our home life.  Fifteen pounds of fluff which vacillates at an astonishing pace between a chewing, biting maniac and a cuddly, sleepy love-bug.  Even as I write this, I am totally enjoying her sleeping twitches out of the corner of my eye.  Her tail flops on the floor and her paws paw the air in circles.  My animal-hard heart has melted into goo.

I wasn’t always like this.  I grew up with Buffy, the runt Collie-German Shepherd with the shortened tail and bum back leg from a nasty fight with a raccoon.  She was the best ol’ dog anybody could ever imagine.  When she was hit by a car, my dad tried unsuccessfully to save her, then lovingly buried her in the woods next to the river.  It was one of only two times in my life I ever saw my dad cry.  I think I hardened my heart that day against giving my unconditional love to a pet.  I was not terribly sad when our next dog, Friendly, got sick and died.  I didn’t want a puppy or a rescue dog as a young adult; I wanted to be footloose and fancy-free, not tied down by man or beast, so to speak.  When I got married, we lived in an apartment building that didn’t allow pets, and I was so glad.  After all, wasn’t it just about cleaning up a smelly mess all the time?  When we had our son and moved into our own house, it was all I could do to keep up with a toddler while both of us were working full time.

Then I stopped working outside the home.  And my son, who had been begging for years to have a dog, saw it as the perfect opportunity; we could no longer defend the position that no one would be home and available to take care of the dog.  Of course, he promised to take the dog for walks, brush it, feed it, bathe it—whatever was required (which is different than the actual doing, of course).  He begged.  He cried.  He whined.  He negotiated.  And he won.  At Christmas, Santa wrapped up a leash with a note, granting his wish.  We would finally welcome a dog into our home.

Trouble is, finding a rescue dog is more than a little like online speed dating.  You get to base a potentially lifelong relationship on a fuzzy picture and a ridiculously short, loose description.  “Fido here is full of energy” (read:  will destroy everything you own), or, “Fido is a sweet-tempered dog who’s patiently been looking for his forever-home” (read:  no one else wants him for some glaringly obvious reason which you’ve yet to discover, but which will have you running back to the shelter within two days).  “Fido is an adorable lab mix” means they have no idea of his parentage.  To make the situation worse, most of the rescue organizations are run by volunteers, and the communication is spotty.  Web form-generated emails generally go unanswered.

Meanwhile, for our family to agree on a desired breed, size, temperament, or color became a monumental task.  My son favored the ever-sunny golden retriever.  My husband, the more independent, big-as-a-pony Great Pyrenees.  And of course I was still looking for Buffy.  I scoured the rescue organizations.  I emailed.  I filled out forms.  Nothing.  I started looking in the newspaper classifieds to see if someone needed a rescue.  We were finally scheduled to go to Indiana to visit a Great Pyrenees with a well-documented barking problem, but the weather wouldn’t cooperate.  While glancing through the classifieds from a neighboring town, I caught my breath:  Collie puppies for sale.  They were only five weeks old, so we would have to wait three weeks to pick them up.  AKC Registered, but the price indicated that the breeder was not the long-established, high-end variety; it could mean a “puppy mill” or it could just mean lack of experience.  We would give them the benefit of the doubt and go visit.

We drove for an hour and a half, getting lost twice, to find the place out in the country.  When we got out of the car, we were greeted by the father and his five kids, all between the approximate ages of 5 and 11.  The mother soon came outside, and I recognized her hairstyle with doily hairpiece and clothing as Apostolic Christian or Pentecostal, a look I know well, having grown up in my grandmother’s Pentecostal church.  The children’s names were all biblical, and she explained that the puppies were her oldest son Daniel’s, as he was in charge.  We went to the large workshop/garage where the puppies and mothers were kept; there were two litters, one with eight puppies and the other with a singleton.  I commented, “Who needs TV when you have so many puppies?”  The reply was, “We don’t have a TV.  Our kids play outside and take care of the dogs and the chickens and the garden.”  Although I disagree with the religious principles, I must say that this lifestyle has its appeal.  Maybe my son wouldn’t be so obsessed with electronic gadgets…..

Anyway, I digress…the singleton was a female, and a week younger than the rest, but just as big and feisty.  My husband picked her up and she fell asleep in his arms.  It was love at first sight for all of us.

My son and Persimmon--love at first sight

Love

 We put down a deposit and drove away, spending the ride back to come up with names for her.  Tulip was a contender.  Penelope.  Bast.  We ended our evening somewhat appropriately at Black Dog, eating barbecue and discussing names.  The next morning, before my son was even completely awake, he looked me straight in the eye and said “Persimmon.”  He explained that his third grade teacher had read them a story about persimmons, and had brought in persimmons to class for the students to try.  He instantly loved them, a combination of sweet and sour.  “Just like her!” he exclaimed.

The next three weeks were unbearable for him, and thus, for us all.  He was crabby.  He cried.  I sent an email to the breeder to find out how she was doing in the record low temperatures, and he kindly sent back a couple of photographs.  My son looked at them and was miserable for the rest of the evening.  

Sent from the breeder at almost 8 weeks

The appointed Saturday drew near, and the weather forecast loomed.  Icy roads and a wintry mix were predicted for that morning, just when we were to pick her up.  The day before was my birthday, and we had invited over several people for cake and champagne late in the evening.  

I actually can't think of a better birthday gift!

As Friday progressed, and the weather forecast became more and more threatening, I called my husband and suggested he pick up the puppy on his way home, as it was closer to him, and since the weather wouldn’t be bad yet.  Of course he didn’t have the crate or toys or food or water with him, but my ever-resourceful husband keeps a stack of extra rags and some extra outer garments for winter weather unknowns in the back of his car.  He tucked her into his jacket, and home they came, to a houseful of people, and a late night.

Since that evening, life has been a blur.  I had forgotten what it’s like to have a newborn/toddler.  After three weeks, she finally sleeps through the night, has very few accidents in the house, and has figured out which chair legs are the tastiest.  She sleeps in a crate at the foot of our son’s bed.  She loves walks.  She loves snow.  She loves belly rubs.  She loves naps.

How could you not adore this girl?

She loves chewing our feet and hands and pantlegs with her sharp little teeth, and we are constantly redirecting her towards her toys or putting her in “time out” in the downstairs bathroom.  Her favorite spot is directly in front of the wood stove.  She eats every meal in approximately 24 seconds.  All in all, she’s a quick learner, and was the star of her puppy class last night.  Most endearing of all is how she loves to greet us every morning, her tail wagging her whole body.  I freely admit, I am in puppy love.