Whiskey: The Unexpected Puppy

Last summer, my son's dog died. It was devastating for everyone, but no one was more broken up then my oldest son, Tristan. She had been his baby, his best friend, and his life, and anyone who has ever lost a dog can relate to that. Finding another puppy who could even come close to Brownie would prove impossible in the months following her death. But we had to try.

Eventually, however, Tristan decided he had to have another Poodle, this one red, not black, and with white markings. So we found a breeder, were told it would be several months before there was a puppy available, and sat back to wait. That should have been it. It really should have.

But fate doesn't always play along, and we were about to learn that first hand. My sister had a dog, a Labradoodle named Willow. Cute dog, sweet, too bouncy for my tastes, but nice enough. She decided to breed Willow to a Golden Retriever a few months after Brownie had passed away. And in January, Willow had nine puppies.

My sister, of course, offered to let him buy a puppy, and Tristan dutifully took a look, but decided they weren't for him. They weren't Poodles, and they weren't dark red, so they weren't for him. Okay. My sister listed her pups for sale and they sold in just a few days. All except for the runt who was walking funny. He'd been born first with no one to witness, so we were never quite sure why. Maybe his mother stepped in him. Whatever the reason, my sister didn't feel comfortable selling a potentially injured pup. She'd wait until the vet cleared him before selling him.

So the weeks passed and we visited once a week so the kids could play with the puppies. Tristan never once mentioned having one of the Goldendoodle puppies for his own. He played with them, talked about the Poodle he'd get in just another three or four months. He was content and things were going as expected.

Then something happened we did not expect. The Saturday before the puppies were to go to their new homes, and just a few hours before my sister would sell the remaining puppy (who had been given a clean bill of health just the day before), we went to see the puppies for the last time.

By this time, we'd all visited once a week for two months. So we'd hold a puppy for a minute, put it down, then visit with my sister (actually my sweetheart of a niece). Tristan was the only one who was still title fascinated, so he hung out with the puppies while we all visited.

I honestly can't tell you what happened next. I do know that Tristan spent two hours laughing in the puppy room while I was mostly playing hide and seek with my niece. I do know that when I called him so we could go home, he came out of the room with a puppy in his arms.

"Mommy, I want Whiskey," he said, clutching at the puppy my nephew had called Whiskey. The runt with the weird hips.

I nodded. "I know, he's cute. Let's go."

My sister reached for the puppy, but Tristan wouldn't give him up. "No, Mommy. I want to buy him."

It was then that my sister, mother, and I probably looked a little ridiculous. We were shocked, to say the least. This kid had exhibited no interest in this puppy just the week before. Now, however, he wanted to buy him.

I recovered first. "Are you sure?" I felt compelled to ask.

He was. That was his puppy. Still, he'd been so set on a red Poodle I was hesitant to agree. We compromised. He'd sleep on it, and the next day, if he hadn't changed his mind, I'd take him to the bank and he could get money out of his account.

Morning didn't change anything. He was in love with that puppy, and it was obvious Whiskey worshipped him in return. So he paid his deposit, got a receipt, and a week later we had a new friend. Whiskey was here to stay.

Not what we expected, but we wouldn't trade him for anything.

The Search for a New Puppy

My oldest son, who is now 9, recently suffered a great loss. His baby, a small black Poodle he's had since he was 3, was killed a little over a month ago. He was quite naturally devastated, and he cried for days. But, like most little boys who need dogs for companionship, Tristan soon started asking about a new puppy. It's not that he was over Brownie. Far from it. It's just that he NEEDS a dog. It's a part of who he is. Like his glasses or his medic ID bracelet. A small dog running at his heels makes him complete, and going through the summer without a puppy was going to be hard.

And thus began our search for a dog. Since it was going to be Tristan's dog, and he was going to be the one looking after this dog, it only made sense that he get to choose. The first thing he wanted me to look for was a small black Poodle, boy or girl, as long as it looked like Brownie.

I'm not that stupid, so relax. I didn't go out and get a small black Poodle he could call Brownie. But I also didn't want to refuse out of hand. Here's where his desire for a purebred Poodle comes in handy. You don't go out and pick up a purebred, show quality, Toy Poodle from your local shelter. It just doesn't work that way. It can take months, sometimes a year, before that perfect Poodle shows up.

What did this mean for me? Well, it meant that I could help him search for a puppy in a convincing manner without committing to a black Poodle. So we searched for a while, looked at pictures of dogs that might have black puppies, and cried quite a bit for Brownie. Tristan cried every night for 2 weeks, actually, which I had expected. He was grieving.

So a little time passed, only a couple weeks really (though it seemed longer), and we were still looking at puppy pictures. I know my son, and I knew he'd do a flip flop on me. And he did. One afternoon, as he was browsing yet another breeder's website, he turned to me and said, "I don't want another Brownie. I want something small and sweet and not black. Or brown. That would remind me of Brownie too much."

That was the sentence I'd been waiting for. I'd known he'd want a Poodle, but not one exactly like his baby. So we discussed it in detail. He was fine with any color that wasn't black or brown, but he wanted a little girl, and he wanted it smaller than Brownie had been. She'd been 8 pounds all soaking wet, not exactly large, so smaller came as a surprise. 6 pounds is what he'd decided he wanted.

To be frank, that size made me a little nervous, but it wasn't my dog. I wasn't the one who would have to feed her. I wasn't the one who would have to carry her outside, or put her in my bike basket when her little legs couldn't keep up. Tristan had been doing all these things since he was 3. He could do them at 9. Not my dog. Not my call.

So now we had a real description of the dog he might want. At this point, I called the breeder who had bred Brownie all those years ago. As soon as I told her what had happened, and as soon as I gave her Tristan's wish list, she told me she had two girls who might be pregnant with puppies who might fit his needs. We'd have to wait and see.

But just knowing a puppy might be born soon was enough to lift Tristan's spirits. Not completely, and he continues to grieve for Brownie, but he's getting better. And having to wait for a puppy is good for him. It allows him to finish grieving while knowing there's a light at the end of the tunnel.

And that light is enough for now.

When Your Son's Dog Dies

We recently suffered a canine loss on our family. My son's dog Brownie was killed on the highway at the end of June. It was the greatest tragedy my 9-year-old had ever experienced because of the close relationship he had with her. They were each other's everything. They played together, ate together, sang together, watched TV together, went camping together, and slept together for 6 years. They were only apart when he went to school or went to visit his father for an afternoon. He even took her shopping with him, and not just at pet stores. They really were two of a kind. She was his best friend, baby, and confidant all rolled into one.

And then that Sunday in June hit. It was the last Sunday of the month, and it dawned bright and sunny. But, because it was Sunday, most of us weren't awake. Unbeknownst to us, a series of unrelated events were about to occur that would lead directly to Brownie's death. My youngest son was the only one awake, and the dog had to go out. Instead of waking my oldest son, as he had always done, he decided to let his brother's dog out into the dog run. What he didn't know was that the fence was down and Tristan had been taking the dog out the front. Tristan would sit on the deck and wait for her, never taking his eyes off her wiggling form.

Rowan, unfortunately, didn't know that. He put the dog in the dog run like a good brother would do. After that we have to piece together what happened from the bits and pieces of information we have gathered. As near as we can tell, Brownie was in the yard for 3 hours before she saw a neighbor jogging down the street. There are no sidewalks where we live, so the shoulder is where we jog. Now Brownie, being naturally social, decided to go with said neighbor. The neighbor saw her and welcomed the company. But it only lasted a moment because people speed on our road. By a lot.

They were jogging together when a car slowed behind them. I'd slow down too if there was a jogger and a little dog on the side of the road. The car behind, however, didn't share the sentiment. It sped up, whipped around the first car, pulled over too far, got caught on the soft shoulder, and hit Brownie and nearly hit the neighbor. Everyone but the speeding idiot stopped, which is obviously how we found out.

So now I'm faced with telling a 9-year-old his dog has passed away. He didn't scream or yell, he just curled up and cried silently into his hands. It broke my heart. I'd lost my own dog 5 years earlier, so I knew something of what he was going through, and I knew there was nothing I could do for him. I couldn't fix it, and that's hard for a mother to accept.

But accept it I had to, because there was nothing else I could do. We did rescue Brownie's collar, which Tristan wore as a bracelet for a few days. Then he asked me to buy a stuffed toy that looked like Brownie. Tiny black poodle toy. Maybe a few years ago this would have been a tall order, but these days the Internet solves many a problem. A stuffed black poodle arrived 3 days later (because when your kid is crying, you pay for faster shipping). He put the collar on the toy and has been carrying it around ever since.

A month has passed since his little dog was killed and he still talks about her every day. She was such a big part of his live that he'll probably talk about her for years, even decades. And that's all right, because she was his baby. His first baby, and he grieved for her as much as anyone has ever grieved for a loved one. There will be other dogs, but Brownie will forever hold that special place in his heart. And I wouldn't change that for the world.

Dog Stories: New Addition

When you get a new dog, how do you pick? Do you go with the one with the sweetest eyes? Or the quietest pup in the place? Maybe you want the most enthusiastic dog you can find. Or maybe you're like us, and the dog picks you.

It was time to get a new puppy. We'd lost our beloved Candy, a huge black sheepdog, a while ago and our little terrier Splashy needed a friend. My father wanted to get an Alaskan Malamute, so after some searching he found a place with only this breed. They had many puppies ready to go home. So he loaded my older sister and I into the car and off we went.

It was a long ride, but we were excited the entire time. It's not every day you bring home a new puppy. When we finally turned into the drive, we strained to see any dogs wandering the property. We saw a large white Malamute and one with gray down its back, but we didn't see any puppies. Our faces fell and my sister looked up at my father without a word.

Dad parked the car and we went around the house to the back as we'd been told to do. An older man with a black beard peppered with white met us and shook my father's hand.

"Svend?" he asked, wanting to make sure we were who he thought we were.

Dad nodded. "And these are my girls, Vicky and Leigh."

We smiled expectantly and almost giggled as the old man, who introduced himself as Leon, opened the gate behind him and led us through.

There were puppies everywhere. It was the depths of winter, the temperature well below freezing, and the puppies didn't seem to care. They romped and played like they were rolling beside a blazing fire. My older sister noticed some of them wore red collars and asked Leon what that meant.

"You can't have any pup in a red collar," he answered. "Those dogs are going to be sled dogs, and they're either staying here or going to their homes shortly."  Leon smiled down at us. "We don't just breed the dogs, we race them. Dogsleds, you understand. You should come out and watch sometime."

"Oh, Daddy, could we?" I squealed. One of the older dogs, one I assumed was a mother, looked at me sideways for making such noise.

"Give us the dates and places and we'll be there." He grabbed Vicky before she could race into the fray and roll in the snow with the pups. "So nothing with a red collar, then. Remember that, girls."

Leon nodded. "These guys are all a little older. Three months and up. They tolerate the cold better, so they can stay out here longer. The younger ones are already back in the house. Let's go in, and if you don't find anything you like, we'll come back out and you can play with these guys a little."

Dad guided us into the house and we followed Leon into a spacious basement. The basement was carpeted, the areas were divided with wire exercise pens. These pens kept the pups in, but allowed the mothers to leave and curl up by the fire. Leon also explained that the adult dogs could go upstairs and out through a doggy door, allowing them to cool off if they got too hot in the house.

"Malamutes get too hot, you understand," he explained. "They can't spend all their time in the house. Though if you have a sun room that's not heated, they'll enjoy that in the winter. In the summer, they need plenty of water and shade. We have kiddie pools for them to cool off."

"We have kiddie pools!" A couple puppies barked at my pitch and my father told me to stop all the squealing.

Leon just smiled. "Put out the pool and fill it with water. When your puppy grows up, he'll lie down in the water to cool off.."

My sister was already wandering the room, looking into each pen at the puppies there. My father watched her carefully and told her not to touch without asking.

"How old are these guys," he asked Leon. His eyes were already on a pure white pup chewing on a toy.

"These are six to twelve weeks. We have some younger, but my wife keeps them upstairs and away from the others." He chuckled. "She babies them and is constantly terrified of them getting sick. They'll come down here when they're six weeks."

"Can I hold one?" Vicky called, having moved considerably closer to the fire than the last time I'd looked at her.

Leon nodded and moved over to her. "Which one did you want to hold, honey?"

Vicky pointed to the little pup staring up at her. This puppy was a little smaller than the others in the pen and looked so lonely. As Leon reached down and lifted the puppy out of the pen, I could see that it had a white belly but a gray head and back. Even the tail was gray. Vicky cuddled the pup to her chest and the pup cuddled right back.

"That's a little girl, six weeks old," Leon explained. "She just came down here yesterday and had her first day outside today."

Dad and I came over. I stroked the puppy's back while Dad rubbed her head. She obviously liked the attention. Her tail was wagging and she was licking Dad's hand and Vicky's face.

"Look, Dad." Vicky turned the puppy's head so Dad could see. "She's got one blue eye, but the other eye is blue and brown."

"Just like her father," Leon chuckled.

"Let's take another look outside," Dad suggested. "I want to see them all before we decide."

Vicky tried to put the pup down, but the little girl clung to her jacket. "Dad, I can't get her off"

Dad tried to help her, but the dog clung with nails and teeth, determined not to be separated. We laughed at little at the puppy's antics.

"Don't worry about it." Leon started to lead us back outside. "She's been in long enough, another few minutes outside won't hurt her. You can carry her if you like."

With a nod an a smile, Vicky followed him outside. We looked around for a while, Dad picked up several pups, but Vicky just clutched the puppy she'd found inside. The little thing would release her coat, so she was stuck holding the pup. Luckily, Vicky didn't seem to mind.

After almost ten minutes, Vicky spoke up. "I want this one." By now the pup was licking and nibbling at her neck. "Actually, I think she wants me."

Dad and I came back to Vicky and looked at the pup again. We fussed for a few minutes before Dad spoke.

"Where are the parents? We need to see the parents before we make a decision on this little one."

"If she won't let go, we have to take her." I was five, and this logic made perfect sense to me.

Leon laughed. "Her mother's inside. Her father ... ah, there he is. Argo! Come, boy!"

A huge dog with a lolling tongue wandered over, taking his sweet time. A puppy chomped at his tail, but Argo just ignored it. He seemed calm and gentle. My Dad knelt to ruffle the thick fur and noted the eyes, which were just like the puppy's.

"He's more brown than gray." Leon patted the dog on the head. "She gets her coloring from her mama. But the eyes are all his."

"And the mother?" Dad was still stroking the dog and seemed reluctant to leave him.

Leon chuckled again. "Let go back in. Mama-dog was sleeping by the fire."

We trooped back in and made our way to the basement. Sure enough, there was still a dog sleeping by the fire. Leon stroked her long back for a moment.

"Mia, time to get up girl."

Mia rose and stretched, surveying us for several minutes. When she'd decided we weren't really intruding, she wandered over and leaned against my dad, anxious for a back rub. Dad liked her immediately.

"The pup will look like her," Leon explained. "They have the same markings."

Dad smiled. "Vicky, try to put the puppy down again."

Vicky tried, she really did, but the puppy was having none of it. She smiled apologetically.

Our father laughed. "Well, I guess I'm not going to get my white dog." He turned to Leon. "How much do I owe you?"

Dog Stories: The Leather Gloves

Well, I've been writing articles about breeds and dog care for weeks, so it's time for a little story. This story takes me all the way back to my childhood and the little dog we called Splashy. This little dog was a terrier, part Yorkshire Terrier, part something else. Regardless of who her parents were, she looked like a terrier and she was one of my best friends growing up.

But she wasn't perfect, as my grandmother will constantly state. The story starts one cold spring morning. It was a Tuesday or a Wednesday ... one of the days my older sister Vicky was in school. Since I was only four years old at the time, I was too young for school. But my father had to work and my mother had volunteered to supervise a field trip at my sister's school. That left my grandmother to watch me and my baby sister Erika. My grandmother arrived at promptly 8am and ushered my sister and mother out the door.

The day went along well enough. Just after our 9am snack, my grandmother packed up my sister and I and we went for a walk. I had Splashy on a leash and the little dog romped beside us, legs flying and fur bouncing. It was cool on this particular morning so we were all wearing gloves and scarves. My grandmother, refined old lady that she was, was wearing stylish brown leather gloves. Not exactly warm, but very pretty.

Splashy obviously agreed because she jumped and nipped, trying with all her might to get a mouthful of glove. You have to understand that Splashy was normally a very well behaved little dog. She never jumped up and she never nipped. But she did both on this blustery morning, and all over a pair of leather gloves. They must have smelled great to her little doggy nose. We never had any leather in our home, so leather gloves were a new experience for Splashy.

But my grandmother was not amused. As she pushed Erika's stroller, she tried everything she could to get Splashy to behave.

"Stop that!" she snapped, giving Splashy a push.

Splashy barked and ran around to my grandmother's other side, possibly hoping that plaguing my grandmother from the right instead of the left would be met with more success.

My grandmother flapped her hands at the little dog. "Get away!"

Well, the flapping only served to drive Splashy into a frenzy as she became determined to have those gloves. She darted in and among the stroller's wheels and started to bark. No, she yipped. Tiny little high pitched yips that made me laugh and my grandmother grumble. The baby remained peacefully sleeping in her stroller.

Eventually, my grandmother had had enough and we headed back to the house, little dog yipping all the way.  We got inside and my grandmother told me to take the leash off and put the dog in the sun room. I did as she instructed as she removed the baby from the stroller and set her free in the living room. Then she stripped off her own outerwear. She hung her hat and scarf on a peg, her coat in the closet, and placed her gloves on the side table.

But Splashy was safely in the sun room so we continued on about our day. Erika played and shrieked on the living room floor. I brushed the hair on each and every My Little Pony I had. My grandmother read a novel out loud. I think it might have been The King of Elfland's Daughter, but it was more than twenty years ago now. It might have been something else.

Lunch came and we knew my mother would soon return home. The field trip was only for a couple of hours, after all. So we adjourned to the kitchen and my grandmother made us pasta. Just as we started to eat, the front door opened. We expected my mother to come bustling into the kitchen. Instead, we faintly heard her sigh.

"Oh no," came the voice from the front foyer.

"What?" my grandmother asked, heading toward the foyer.

I put down my fork, interest peaked, as Erika shoved her pasta off her highchair and let it clatter to the floor.

An instant later, my grandmother shrieked. There's no other way to describe it. The sound reverberated through the house and I jumped off my chair and hurried to the foyer. And stopped dead.

There was Splashy, the tiny little dog who was supposed to be in the sun room, with a tiny bit of leather sticking out of her mouth. Other bits of leather were strewn across the floor. My mother and grandmother were standing there staring. And Splashy was doing her best to look innocent. She might have pulled it off if it hadn't been for the bit of leather sticking to her lips.

My grandmother was ranting, wanting to know how the dog had gotten out of the sun room and why on earth Splashy would eat her gloves. During this rant, I began to get a little worried. I had put the dog in the sun room. Would I be in trouble for her escape?

But before my grandmother could direct some blame toward me, my mother went back to the sun room. Her eyes nearly popped out of her head when she saw what Splashy had done. The french doors, which had been in pristine condition, were now ... decidedly not. Splashy, in her desperation to reach the leather gloves, had pulled and chewed until part of the french doors had come away. This was a tiny dog, so she managed to slip through a fairly small hole. Still, eating through wooden doors and still managing not to alert any of us to the damage was quite impressive.

But dear old Grandma was not amused. She lectured the poor little dog, who only looked at her with wide brown eyes. I swear the dog smiled as my grandmother threw up her hands and stormed from the house.

But the lesson was learned. Never leave leather gloves on the side table. Put them away in a pocket or up on a shelf. Even if you think the dog is in the sun room.