The last thing I want to be is ‘that guy’ who corners innocent bystanders and forces them to look at 32 gigs worth of iPhone photos of his kids or grandkids. Or new puppy. That said, if you can stand one more column about our new dog, I promise it will be the last one this year. Or, at least for several months. Or maybe weeks.
Anyway, since announcing last week that we finally have a new puppy at our house, I’ve been a little surprised at the reaction of some folks when they find out we got our furry little guy from a breeder. You’d think I was smoking a fat cigar in a room full of children while double-bagging groceries with both paper and plastic bags! The palpable disdain is like a bad stench in a hot, closed room. I’ve looked up more upturned noses lately than a plastic surgeon in Beverly Hills.
Last week at our puppy’s first visit to the doggy doctor, we mentioned to the attending vet tech that we had purchased our puppy from a breeder in Norco (a rural area in Southern California south of L.A. County) and had driven out to pick him up the previous weekend. Without the slightest hesitation she said to us, “Oh … I could never get a dog from a breeder, but at least you went to pick him up and didn’t have him shipped to you. That’s the worst.”
Yes, at least we didn’t do that. And at least Hitler washed his hands after using the commode and Attila the Hun was nice to his mother.
So here’s the deal; we tried to adopt. I swear we did. We would have liked nothing more than to bring home an abused or abandoned young lab or golden or similar-sized mix and lavish love and attention on the dear dog for the rest of its hopefully long, wonderful life. We scoured web sites. We visited local animal shelters. We signed up for registries. We paid fees to dog adoption/rescue organizations had our backgrounds checked and even had our home and property inspected to see if we would make suitable “parents” for a rescue dog. The only thing they left out was a cavity search. (And I’m pretty sure one of the ladies who visited us was working up to it.)
And so, after many months of forms, fees, interrogations, inspections, interviews and interminable waiting, we were still without a dog. I don’t know about the rest of the country, but in Southern California, unless you want a dog with either Pit Bull or Chihuahua (or both!) parentage, you’re pretty much out of luck. Every dog that was even remotely suited to our lifestyle and family dynamics (i.e.; big, furry, goofy and loveable) was not only immediately spoken for as soon as it was up for adoption, but somehow already had a waiting list five or six deep of other people who wanted to take it home.
When I wrote about looking for a dog months ago, I received many helpful suggestions from wonderful readers who sent me phone numbers and links to various dog rescue organizations. After following up on several of these, we probably could have adopted/rescued one or two labs and possibly a golden-shepherd mix – if, that is, we were willing to travel to Northern Nevada, Iowa and/or Illinois to pick the dog up.
And so, we did the apparently politically incorrect thing and got a puppy through a carefully selected, private, loving, caring, in-home breeder. That said, we have always been a two-dog home, so we’re still looking for a canine companion for Oakley. If the right adoptive dog becomes available, we’ll happily welcome it into our hearts and home. If not, we’ll just have to suffer even more scorn and shame from all the doggy do-gooders out there. But I promise I won’t write about it.
I’ll see you ‘round town.
Since this was Valentine’s week, I’m going to put myself out there and officially declare to the teeming masses that I am irrevocably, unashamedly, unabashedly in love with a new Valentine who I only met for the first time less than three weeks ago. But I’m okay with that. More importantly, my wife of almost 27 years is okay with that.
My Valentine has soft, beautiful, wavy brown hair that I just can’t stop running my fingers through. My Valentine has ears like mud flaps, loves to snuggle against my neck and be held constantly. Oh, and as I’m writing this, my Valentine is curled up contentedly at my feet.
As you may have guessed, there’s a new dawg in da house. After losing our beloved pooch back in June of last year and being a dog-less home for the first time in decades – we have a new puppy. Not that I’m thrilled or anything, but he’s an 8-week old, chocolate brown Labradoodle who came to live with us just this past Saturday. And he goes by the name of Oakley.
How’s it going so far? Well, if I say that I’m writing this with a good portion of my brain half asleep, one eye shut and drool barely missing the space bar on my keyboard – does that give you a clue? As loveable and adorable and cuddly as Oakley can be during the daytime, the little guy is – so far at least – not all that happy with sleeping in a crate by our bed at night. And by “not happy” I mean miserable; as in yelping, barking, crying, whining, whimpering, growling, simpering and howling.
I want to know, how in the animal kingdom world does a small, 14-pound package of puppy make such an ear-splitting, headache-inducing racket for hours upon hours upon hours every stinkin’ night? I mean, if the nights were warmer and we had our windows open, I have no doubt that by now one or more of our neighbors would have called the ASPCA, Animal Legal Defense Fund, PETA, the Animal Protective League and maybe even the Arizona Humane Society on us. I’m pretty sure Oakley’s protestations could be heard in Phoenix if our windows weren’t shut.
One would think a hound from hell has possessed our bedroom every night between 11:00 pm and sunup since last weekend. And then, the morning comes, Oakley is released from his torture chamber (with its cushy foam bedding, doggie pillow, chew toy, soft blanket covering to create a sense of safety and security) and he becomes, once again, a cute, cuddly angel puppy who wants nothing more than to wag his teeny tail, gaze lovingly at us with his irresistible green-gray eyes, lick our faces and romp around in the yard, chasing leaves and shadows and gusts of wind. The transformation is like, well … night and day.
Even so, I already love this little guy. He is fast becoming accustomed to the workday routine in my home office and shows every sign of being an ideal co-worker, office mate and lunch companion for the long haul. As I’ve already mentioned, in fact, he’s below me right now while I’m writing; his soft, warm fuzzy muzzle resting on my foot – sound asleep and dreaming whatever ridiculously cute puppies dream about.
He’ll most likely wake up just long enough to quietly escape my office while I’m on a client call or lost in thought over some other writing project and sneak out to find a new place on the carpet to deposit another “surprise” he has personally made for me to discover when I realize he isn’t underfoot any longer. But for now he’s sleeping the sleep of an exhausted puppy and storing up energy for another long, loud night ahead. Here’s hoping my wife gives me bright red ear plugs for Valentine’s Day. I’ll see you ‘round town.
When this column was published in yesterday's edition of the Crescenta Valley Weekly newspaper, it was one day short of exactly five months since we said goodbye to our remaining family dog. Not that I’m acutely, achingly, painfully aware of the exact day that old guy left us, or anything like that. You may remember, he was a goofy, ridiculously pampered, joyfully loving Yellow Lab named Darby.
As I’ve written before (probably too often for some readers), I’m a dog person from muzzle to tail. I’m not losing my hair, I’m shedding. If I’m not feeling well, my wife has been known to feel my nose to see if it’s cold and wet or dry and warm. I have pants and coats hanging in my closet even now that I would bet have dog biscuits in them. I find it remarkable but not surprising that my wife and I have spent more money in vet bills over the past twenty-or-so years than we have on medical treatment for our own four human kids. (Thankfully, our kids have been blessedly healthy!) We have spent countless nights clinging to the edge of our queen-sized bed because our dog(s) were sacked out and snoring smack dab in the center of it and we didn’t want to disturb their slumber. Yes, dogs tend to live a mighty cushy life at our home.
That said, I’m amazed that our house has been sans-dog for these past five long and lonely months. While my wife, bless her heart, enjoys the dramatically less frequent use of our vacuum cleaner, along with not tripping over a dog or two every time she opens the refrigerator or pantry door (not to mention much more available real estate in our bed every night!), I have been not-so-patiently waiting to begin the process of finding the next dog(s) to welcome into our family. You might even say I’ve been panting to get started. (Seriously, how could I NOT have just written that?)
And so, for several weeks now we’ve been in the process of browsing animal shelter web sites, visiting the shelter in person, and emailing or calling dog breeders about available puppies or upcoming litters.
Now, I can already hear the outrage and gnashing of teeth from well-meaning animal activists screaming, “Don’t shop, adopt!” and other less-printable comments in my direction. Believe me; our hope is to find a young dog of the Lab persuasion (or Labradoodle, Golden Retriever, Italian Waterdog or some Heinz 57-like combination thereof) that needs a dog-loving home and doting, overly permissive adoptive parents. But, from our experience so far, the reality of the “adoption” process today is not an easy one. In our limited experience to date, unless you want a dog who had either Pitt Bull or Chihuahua parents (or both, somehow and incredibly!), you’re out of luck. Any and all larger dogs in the retriever family simply won’t be going home to your family. As the very nice woman at the Pasadena Humane Society told us, “Oh no, the waiting list for any lab is full almost immediately after they arrive at our shelter.” Bummer.
At the risk of offending fans of the breed, let’s just say I’m not the Pitt Bull type. And as for Chihuahuas? Well, we have an old, geriatric, exceedingly cranky and belligerent house cat that not only would eat a pocket puppy’s dinner, it would probably eat the dog itself. She is one mean, mutha of a cat.
And so we continue our search. I’ve got a bucket of chew toys, coat pockets full of biscuits, a nicely re-grown lawn in our backyard, and an ultra-cushy, super-plush, extra-large dog bed all ready and waiting for whatever lucky dog(s) is out there waiting for us to find him and/or her. Not that I have any delusions that any dog of ours will actually sleep on its own bed.
I’ll see you ‘round town.
