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.

Because he is growing so fast...

...I had to order some of these photos from Leslie Plesser and Shuttersmack.  Taken almost two months ago already!

And while his face hasn't changed much, the rest of him has. My little model.

My favorite

In sickness and in health

Angus was tired after his long Saturday walk.

Saturday was a beautiful early spring day, sunny, blue sky, highs in the 40s. We took the dogs on a lovely long afternoon walk--more than an hour. Maybe 90 minutes. Most of the ice we'd been mincing along on throughout February had melted, and it felt glorious to walk fast and untrammeled and without fear.

Angus was great (Rosie was too, of course)--trotting along happily, splashing through puddles, climbing snowbanks, breaking through the crust, going ballistic only once (it was a big baby stroller that set him off).

Back home, both dogs conked out and slept hard, and then we started to worry. You're really not supposed to take a four-month-old puppy on a walk of that duration. We keep forgetting that he's still so young because, of course, he's so big. (Twenty-seven pounds, assuming our bathroom scale is accurate.) (The puppy calculator still works out to about 82 pounds.)

I remember asking our vet a while back how far it was OK to walk him, and he was pretty vague--the problem with walking puppies too far too early is that it can affect hip development, especially in purebreds, and they can develop hip dysplasia. So we asked Mr. Google, who told us in no uncertain terms that puppies should be walked five minutes per month of life--Angus is four months old, so that means 20 minutes for a fourth-month old, Not 90 minutes.

Oh god, have we ruined Angus's health?

We have been lucky with all of our dogs. They've all been robust and healthy and they've all lived long and full lives. Toby had a heart murmur all his life, but it only became a problem in his last six months. Boscoe developed diabetes at age 14, and I remember asking the vet, "Will this shorten his life?" And the vet stared at me a moment and then said, "He's fourteen. He's already lived longer than most dogs of his size." Boscoe lived another three years, with the help of insulin and frequent glucose curve tests.  Riley never had a thing wrong with him in all of his 16 years and probably would have lived forever if not for his debilitating arthritis.

Getting a puppy is a marriage, almost. A partnership, for sure. You vow to live with this dog in sickness and in health, taking care of it, looking out for it, treating it even if it involves needles and injections. We take this seriously, of course, even when it gets expensive; when Toby went into heart failure he spent several days in an oxygen cage at the University of Minnesota; when Boscoe blew out his knee at age 10 he had meniscus surgery.

After a soggy morning, this afternoon was sunny and breezy again. A storm is moving in tomorrow, and this was our last chance to walk free and untrammeled for another week or so--they're predicting nine inches of snow.

We took the dogs for a walk in the afternoon sunshine. Both dogs walked well. As we neared the 20 minute mark, we turned back toward home.

It really did not take all that long

Look at that face. More dog than puppy.

Angus sleeps through the night. He's been sleeping through the night for quite some time.

He has not had an accident in the house in two weeks. (Fingers crossed on this one.)

He still barks occasionally at strangers, but he doesn't go ballistic at everyone he sees.

He walks pretty well on the leash even though he hasn't yet had formal training.  He does strain like crazy when all four of us walk together because he wants to be up in front with Rosie. (But if he's ahead of her, then she barks. She is lead dog.)

His stomach calmed down weeks ago and he eats everything robustly, even bully sticks, with no ill effects.

He sits nicely when we tell him to, although for some reason he thinks he should be on the striped rug in the kitchen when he does so. (I guess because that's where we first taught him to sit.)

His favorite place to sit.

He stays, a little. For a few seconds.

He plays like crazy with Rosie. He fetches, a little, though he's no Toby.

He races up and down the big staircase with abandon.

His morning ritual is to be freed from his crate, dash over to where my socks are, grab one, and then prance out into the hall with it. He doesn't chew it. He just likes to possess it.

He does chew as many dish towels as he can get his jaws on. He doesn't drop them, no matter how much kibble we toss his way. So we have to pry them off his teeth.

As far as we can tell he hasn't yet started losing his puppy teeth but the vet said it should be any day now.

Right now, not yet 6 a.m., he's rattling around in his toy box, looking for something. He knows where his toy box is. He knows those toys are for him. He knows which one he's looking for.

What is there to say?  He's still a puppy but he's a great puppy and he's a growing puppy and he is a good puppy.

He fits into our lives so well. It's hard to remember he hasn't always been with us.

Toby in his last summer

Last night I dreamed that Toby came back. He was old but not yet decrepit and he was upstairs, sleeping. It was a lovely little detail in a dream that otherwise made little sense. Our dogs have always been with us. Our dogs will always be with us.