Are you looking for Angus stories?

Because of course they never end.

But Angus has moved to the Star Tribune---I probably will not be updating this blog much. But you can follow his adventures every other Saturday in the Star Tribune.

Go to http://www.startribune.com/puppy to catch up.

A turning point for Angus

It's Sunday afternoon, and Angus is conked out somewhere--in his bed by the radiator, probably, his favorite spot in the house. Even though it is the second week of April, the warmth from the radiator is welcome. It is barely 34 degrees outside, and cloudy, and gloomy, and -- oh, wait. This is supposed to be about Angus, not about the weather.

This weekend was a turning point for him, or maybe for me--my confidence in him has grown immeasurably. He met many challenges over the last four days and he surpassed each one, easily.

As you know, I've been hyper-aware these last few weeks of how Angus barks at strangers and dogs that we meet on walks. I've been working with him steadily, every single time: He sits. He watches me. He gets a treat.

But on Thursday we were expecting company--first friends Ellen and Steve, stopping by to pick up their car which we had been storing while they were on vacation, and then the entire Myers clan from Duluth, coming down for the hockey game: four people and two big chocolate Labs, the elderly Bigsby and the rambunctious two-year-old Blue.

I was a little worried how he was going to react to so much intrusion, so many strange people and dogs, invading his space.

Thursday afternoon I took him outside to meet Ellen and Steve on the sidewalk, on neutral ground, and while his first impulse was to bark, I wouldn't let him. He sat, he managed a quick bark before settling into his watch me and accepting his treat, and after that it was clear sailing. They each gave him a Charlee Bear, and while he did bark at their roller bag as he followed it up our front steps, that was his only transgression. They stayed about a half-hour and Angus was sweet as pie, though he kept trying to climb into Steve's lap.

As Ellen and Steve drove away up the alley, my phone pinged: The Myerses were six blocks away.  Leashed up Angus again, met them on the sidewalk (people first, one by one, then the dogs), and all went swimmingly. He and Blue immediately bonded and spent most of the rest of the weekend chasing each other around the frozen and bleak and icy back yard.

His new best friend, the young Myers girl

 On Saturday, Angus had a busy morning: a vet appointment to check the stitches from his neutering, and then his first Obedience 1 class. We drove him to the vet and he didn't throw up in the car: that was his first victory. Then, as the vet tech took his leash to lead him into the back room, she asked, "Where is his incision site?" and her question threw me so thoroughly that I didn't know how to answer it. (You don't know where a dog is neutered?) I stammered out, "Well, you cut his balls off," and she nodded as though that was a reasonable thing for me to say. "Ah," she said. "That's what I thought. A neuter."

He was back in seconds; his stitches were fine; and I walked him home.

But the specter of Obedience 1 had been hanging over us. I had emailed the instructor a few days before and told her that Angus often tried to bark at dogs we met on the walk, and I asked how we should best handle the class. Should he try to meet the other dogs out on the sidewalk in advance?

Absolutely not, she said. She said we would have to spend the first few minutes of class behind a screen. Once he had gotten used to being in a room full of dogs, we could emerge from the screen. This sounded demoralizing and embarrassing. I envisioned a six-foot-tall Japanese screen with Angus and me behind it, mysterious and shadowy figures.

As it turned out, though, Angus only had to be behind his screen for a matter of minutes. Other dogs, I will tell you smugly, spent the entire hour behind their screens, one of them popping up every now and then to see what he was missing. The screens are made of wire laced with blue tarp and are about four feet high; Doug and I could see over them just fine to follow along the teacher's instructions, but a dog behind the screen was able to calm down and concentrate on the lesson instead of the other dogs.

I took Angus out from the screen after about five minutes, though it was nice that it was there--when he grew distracted (but not barking; he didn't bark) I could lead him behind it again.

We concentrated on five things in class: Name recognition; Sit; Lie down; Stand; and Watch me.

He knew all of those except Stand brilliantly; we do them every day, many times a day. Oddly, he lost Sit during class and I had to give him the command over and over--I think his habit of sitting on the striped rug in the kitchen has made it hard for him to transfer the command (though he sits on the walk when I tell him to).

We were told to practice these 100 times a day all week, and we will. We have to stop showing him the treat first, though (which might be why he didn't want to sit) and I have to stop bending over at the waist when I tell him to watch me.

But he did so well, worked so hard, looked at the other dogs with interest but without aggression or fear. He ate almost an entire bag of treats over the course of the hour, and I think he's going to do just fine.

The three musketeers. (Bigsby, being quite elderly, was mostly sleeping in another room.)

We had Blue and Bigsby all Saturday night while the Myerses were at the hockey game, and it was actually Rosie who disgraced herself by growing jealous, I think, of the great friendship between Angus and Blue. They did fine at first--she had met Blue many times before and liked him--but as the weekend wore on she got crankier and crankier, barking at poor Blue every chance she got. This morning Doug took her for a long walk in the bitter damn cold just to give her some one-on-one time and settle her nerves.

But Angus!  Angus was a champ. I am so thrilled with him. He turned five months old yesterday and he weighs 33 pounds. He's turning into a fabulous dog.

The big snip

"I am not ashamed."

 Puppies get neutered all the time (or they should). So, no big deal--right?

The Humane Society wouldn't let us bring Riley home until after they'd neutered him.  With Rosie and with Angus, we had to pay the neutering costs as part of their adoption fees. (And then decided we wanted the surgery done in our own clinic, and so had to pay a second time--the adoption places only work with a few clinics and ours is not among them.)

With Toby and Boscoe we were on our own, but we did it because that's what responsible dog owners do. Although I didn't have Toby neutered until he was five, because I was (as I've mentioned before) a clueless person who had never owned a dog before and didn't know the proper way to do things.

But still. We got it done, for all of them.

So why was I so nervous yesterday?

No good reason. No good reason at all. Angus' procedure is simpler than the one poor Rosie went through six years ago, where they unseamed her from the nave to th' chops, as Shakespeare would say. Angus' incision is less than an inch long. (And actually Rosie's was tiny, too; our vet prides himself on very small incisions.)

But the older I get the less easy I am with creatures I love being hurt in any way, even when it's for their own good. That's a self-important way of saying that I have become a big softie.

Me.

 I asked Doug if he would drop Angus off; I just couldn't bear to leave him there. I would be the hero and pick him up afterwards.

Despite my fretting, all went well. The vet called me just before noon and said Angus was beginning to wake up, all had gone smoothly, and I could pick him up after work. That was when Doug confessed that they had made him sign a Do Not Resuscitate order when he dropped Angus off, in case Angus suffered cardiac arrest on the table.

This news practically gave me cardiac arrest. But Angus was fine. He came out of the back room hopping and jumping, as usual. He was a little glassy-eyed, but other than that didn't seem in pain or even woozy.

The discharge papers included all kinds of cautions: Keep him quiet. No playing. Short walks. Keep the incision clean and dry. No baths. (Baths?) Lots of rest. Have him wear a conehead when you can't keep an eye on him.

For how long? I asked.

Seven to ten days.

Seven to ten days of keeping a puppy quiet? Seven to ten days of keeping this puppy quiet? Seven to ten days of a conehead?

I'm sure they have to say all of that, just like they have to warn against cardiac arrest. But this seemed like overkill.

Angus slept soundly all night, no hint of pain or inappropriate stitches-damaging licking. I took Thursday as a reading day at home, so I could keep an eye on him. I figured he'd be subdued and quiet and tired and maybe unhappy.

But the only thing that made him unhappy was the conehead.

"Is this really necessary?"

He tolerated it, but it's enormous, and he kept bashing into doorways and couldn't figure out how to get into his crate. So I went down the basement and rooted around in some boxes and found the Bite-Not collar that we had gotten years ago for Boscoe.

It holds the neck in such a way that he can't reach back and do any damage. 

Angus accepted it and took a long nap.

I took the collar off for the afternoon walk and then just didn't put it back on again. He's shown no sign at all of missing what he is now, um, missing. If he's in any pain (and he is on rimadyl, twice a day) he's hiding it well. (This is the dog who lets out a blood-curdling shriek if I accidentally step on one of his feet during our walk. He is not stoic.)

Right now he's lounging around almost totally commando: just a flimsy red collar and nothing else.

Tomorrow I'll go back to the newsroom.  We'll put the Bite-Not on him just to be safe, but I'm pretty sure that Angus will be fine.

And of course I will fret about him all day.

Each dog is a new beginning

Angus, yesterday. He's growing up.

On walks, Angus has a little reactive fear to people and dogs. We break his attention (Uh-Uh!), make him sit and watch me and take a treat. If he's calm, he gets to meet them. If he's nervous, we move on. All works well, but I stay vigilant.

Rosie is gregarious as hell.

Angus does not bark much at all in the yard. Rosie--self-appointed guardian of house and yard--goes ballistic at the garbage truck, the neighbors exiting their house, people walking past on the sidewalk. Angus just lifts his head and looks at her, and then goes back to sniffing the grass.

Toby (the sainted and dear departed) went nuts the first time I put a leash on him. He ran frantically around the kitchen, smashing into walls, trying to get away from that thing that was suddenly attached to him.

Riley fought the leash--strained and pulled relentlessly, and then lunged at squirrels to the point where I had to subject myself to seven sessions of physical therapy to get my elbow back in working order. (This was before we knew about leash training.)

Angus was almost to the leash born--he's still had no formal training, but for the most part he walks very naturally, at my side (and sometimes under foot), cool and calm.

Rosie has run away at every possibly opportunity--both up north off the trail and here at home when gates are thoughtlessly left open.

Boscoe escaped from the yard exactly once. He seized the opportunity to trot around to the front of the house and sit on the front step.

Having a dog--or, as we have had, five dogs, though not all at once--gives you experience in some things: housebreaking, rule-making, basic training. But for everything else, you're on your own. Each dog is different. Each personality is different. Do they like their belly rubbed (Angus, Boscoe) or do they prefer ear scratches (Rosie, Riley)?

Do they cuddle? (Angus, Boscoe, Toby) or are they a bit more standoffish (Rosie, Riley)?

Chew toys or puffy toys?

Verbal (Rosie--she has so many different moans, barks, whimpers and squeaks she can practically talk) or do they prefer communicating through staring (border collie Boscoe)?

We are having fun figuring out Angus. I look at his face and I cannot read it yet. It seems impassive.  I remember wondering this when we first got Riley--when will I know what these expressions mean? It takes time. It's fun to watch his personality unfold. He's like no other dog we've ever had. None of them ever are.

The pre-training training continues apace

Man, I just survived THREE DAYS away from Angus and Rosie. Thank god for Doug, who texted me photos of the animals repeatedly throughout my trip to New York.  Here's one of them.

It's 5 a.m.! Where the hell is my breakfast?

That ear!

When I got home on Saturday afternoon I immediately noted that Angus has, again, doubled in size. The last time we weighed him was a week ago when we brought him to the vet for a blood draw; he weighed 28.6 pounds and I am sure he's over 30 by now.

The results of the blood draw came in while I was in New York: The vet says all is fine, the neutering is a go.  Hang onto your balls, little guy--at least until next Tuesday.

Meanwhile, even though Obedience 1 doesn't start until early April, we continue to work with him on a few obedience matters. And he continues to be brilliant on some things, stubborn on others, and weird on others.

Brilliant: He is great at recall, still. We play the name game at home sometimes, and I play it on the walks, calling his name when we are in places of high distraction, and he always always turns to look at me. And always gets a treat.

Stubborn:  On the walks we also work on SIT and WATCH ME, and he's great at those 10 times out of 11 and the 11th time he simply will not sit. Lord knows why.

Weirdness: In the house he only wants to sit and lie down on his favorite blue striped rug in the kitchen. (See photo above.)

It's very hard to get him to sit and lie down anywhere else, though lord knows we try. In the hallway he does OK, but in the kitchen he gets confused, doesn't respond, and then races over to the striped rug and does it all perfectly.

So if you come to our house some time and find that every room is newly carpeted in blue stripes, you will understand why.

Pre-bedtime excitement.

He's very stubborn on jumping. He still jumps up, even though I have never once opened a door, petted him, nor given him a treat if he rockets toward my face. And yet. He still. ROCKETS UP to me.

He is only four months old, I keep telling myself. Still a baby.  The thing is, puppies have so much to learn, and they have to learn it all at once: pee there, not there! Sit, don't jump! Walk nicely, don't play tug with the leash! And when you are frightened by another dog or by a man surprising you by stepping out of the shadows with a lit cigarette (as happened last night) for the love of god do not go all ballistic and Cujo on them.

Sadly, he did, last night, barking and twirling on the leash and baring his teeth at the man, and I tried valiantly to get him to calm down, sit, to no avail, and I apologized to the man, saying, "He's just a puppy," and the man said, "Vicious," and I could not tell if he was joking or serious.

But Christ on a bike I cannot let the world be frightened by my dog, who is, as we all know, going to be gigantic.

This is why the training continues apace.

A month of freedom

The back yard still has a thick snow pack, which is perfect for high-spirited dogs. Once the snow melts--and I wish that it would melt everywhere except our back yard--it will be mud, and new grass, and the dogs will be filthy, and the grass will be trampled. But for now it's perfect for racing around.

Angus is having a great March. No classes! Few corrections! He has me all to himself on the walks and I let him meander!

But oh, April is looming.

On Sunday morning, we all walked over to the veterinarian's office--Angus and me, Rosie and Doug--and Angus had a blood draw taken, the first step toward getting....you know....neutered.

That dastardly deed will take place at the end of the month, along with a microchip. And then about 10 days later, he'll start Obedience 1.

But until then, he's happy and happy-go-lucky, racing around with Rosie and his pals from next door (who are moving! But don't tell Angus that). And he and I go around the lake, and he is very very good, meeting other dogs, making friends. At the vet's office, he walked in the door and immediately made friends with a 90-pound German shepherd. No problem.

He's completely carefree.  He has no idea what's ahead.

In a mood

"I want."

 Rosie is in a mood this morning. She's been owly the last couple of mornings; I wonder if she needs more sleep, or more coffee. I know that I do.

I think Angus sometimes gets on her nerves with his perkiness and his vivaciousness and his adorable misbehaving ways (I have, so far this morning, rescued two gloves, four boots and a dish towel from his jaws). He gets a few treats, a sing-song, "Drop it!" and he is free to prance off and go chew something else.

Rosie stalks around and glares. She knows he's doing wrong and there's not a thing she can do about it except watch him get rewarded with treats.

I wonder what gets into a dog, what affects its moods, because clearly they have them. Rosie stares at me from about a foot away and lets out a little moan from time to time and it is clear she wants something, isn't happy about some situation--the Angus situation, the food situation, the situation in the White House, I have no idea--and I can either endure it or try to decipher it.

Angus wakes up sweet and happy and playful and yet when I come home from work he is frenzied, jumping on me, clawing at my clothes, desperate for something--not liberation, apparently, because he doesn't want to go outside. Attention, maybe. But it's hard to pet a dog that is clawing at your sweater.

Sometimes I am overwhelmed by the responsibility of caring for another living creature--one that cannot talk and so communicates its needs through stares, actions, barks and moans. Sometimes they are easy to understand: Angus' 5 a.m. squeaks, for instance, have a clear meaning: Time to get up!

But sometimes it's a guessing game. (And sometimes that's a game I don't want to play.)

"I am adorable."

I'm not anthropomorphizing here; while dogs certainly have a range of emotions from joy to guilt to sadness I don't think they feel these things in the same way that we do, nor with the same range and complexity.

Rosie just walked into the kitchen and stared pointedly at the top of the refrigerator. Aha!  Angus's chew toy is up there, the bully stick he started and didn't finish. She knows it's there, and she wants it.

Sometimes emotions aren't all that complex. Sometimes they are simply desire.

Sorry, girl. Not gonna get it.