Wednesday, April 14, 2004

Puppy love

They say that when you have your first child your whole life changes. Your priorities realign and suddenly the focus is on the baby, its needs, its happiness and its safety. When you bring home your first puppy and you are well past the age of fatherhood, your focus is on your shoes, your shoestrings and keeping them tied.

A little black lab has come bounding into my life and sent my world careening out of its old orbit into the deep reaches of doggy dementia. I have no one to blame but myself. I’ve been threatening for months to rescue a puppy from the animal shelter and one March afternoon I stopped by the Fayette County Animal Shelter just to see if there were any of the creatures available. I’ve had many kittens that turned into cats and I know how that game is played, but after good, ol’ Angus passed away, that was it for me. I had to take a break from the animal kingdom. If I was going to get a dog, I wanted the whole experience. They had only one puppy for sale that day. I briefly said hello to her and pretty much knew that this ball of excitement was coming home with me. There was only one catch.

A young couple had just seen her before I showed up and wanted her as well. Unfortunately, she would not be available until the following morning at 9 a.m.. Whoever showed up on time the next day would get her. If more than one person came to claim her, a name was drawn from a hat and a special friendship was born. I won that drawing and I didn’t even cross my fingers.

I should have named her Kismet for the element of chance she represented. StilI I had to consider yelling “Kismet, get over here!” in front of the neighbors. I knew my luck was good finding this beautiful, little labrador for a mere $5. I decided to call her Angel for several reasons, but mostly because she looks after me and she’s always there.

Sure, I give her food and water and more chew toys than she can carry. I clean up her messes. I brush her and walk her. All of that seems so minor compared to her undying devotion to chasing around the house, biting my nose, my ears, hands and feet, crawling over me like a jungle gym or redistributing my dirty laundry.

I have had to make a lot of adjustments. I knew that going in. Lots of things would have to be put up out of reach. If it was on or near the floor, I considered it fair game. From the moment I carried her out to my truck, my attitude was, “This is a privilege I have been looking forward to for a long time. She’s at the top of my list now and anything she does cannot be serious enough to incur my anger.”

Many people have given me their advice on raising a puppy and I’ve perused the methods of the experts. I don’t know if it’s just the cat in me, but I let her do whatever she wants. She’s not confined to a cage or a room. She’s not tied up outside in the back yard. She has run of the house and that’s fine with me. I step over he toys or kick them out of the way. I make bigger messes than she does. I let her up on the couch. I let her sleep on the bed. It doesn’t matter to me. I’m not going to be like my mother with her mutt years ago. “Rebel, get on your rug!” was the standard command she barked.

It’s a little embarrassing to admit that I find myself singing to her. “You’re my Angel! Come and lick me tonight!” In the morning when I feed her, it’s “Just feeding Angel in the morning. Morning!” When I take her picture which is becoming more and more frequent as she is growing right before my eyes, it’s “My Angel in the centerfold. Angel in the centerfold!” And when I go to bed at night she’s my “undercover angel.” And when I’m not rewriting pop tunes in her honor, I’m talking the most annoying babytalk to her. “Who’s a boo boo doo doo? Who’s a boo doo?” Ok, I stole that from Jim Carrey, but Angel loves a good comedy.

There are a few things I still need to work on before her debutante ball. The biting has to stop although I know she’s only playing. The clawing has to stop although she’s only happy to see me. It’s just that my face and my legs can’t take much more bloodletting.

The jumping is bad too. It’s all good fun to her. She just gets so excited. When I come home from work, she attacks me like Dino and I love every minute of it! Angel is a constant source of entertainment. Who needs TV? When she runs through the house with some stuffed animal in her mouth shaking it wildly, I can’t help but laugh. She can also make the silliest expressions I’ve ever seen. I am constantly trying to capture them for posterity.

Her face also shows when she realizes I am not pleased. Those sad little eyes look up at me and it’s all over. All is forgiven. Maybe she’s running the show. That’s OK. I’m just here to make sure she’s happy.

She even brought me a gift yesterday. I was so proud. I let her go out to play if she stays in the yard. She likes to see how far away she can wander and I often have to carry her back home from the neighbors. All of a sudden she came running up to me beside herself with glee. I could tell she had something special to show me. It was on the end of the porch laying there like a peace offering. As I got closer I could see what had her so hyped. It was a big, dead rat! I stood there motionless, amazed. She bent her head down and grabbed it in her mouth, running around the side of the house with it. I had to chase after her and wrestle it from her jaws. “This is not a stuffed animal.” I said. “It may seem like it to you, but trust me.” She’s gonna be a good dog. I can tell.

I reread an old story by Kurt Vonnegut last night called “Tom Edison’s Shaggy Dog.” It’s a very funny little tale whose premise is that dogs are actually smarter than humans, smart enough to have us care for all their needs. The shaggy dog in the story gives Edison the solution to the lightbulb’s invention after being found out to have a superior intellect. A pack of dogs ambush him outside for his betrayal of their secret. It’s a typical dark narrative by Vonnegut, but it shows the irony of master and servant.

Puppy love came a little late in life for me. It was worth the wait.