My husband, teenage daughter and I are the proud owners of a new puppy. Zydeco Royale, named in honor of NOLA, our favorite city, joined the family at the beginning of April. In two short months, he's dug up our garden, chewed through the cable TV cords and completely, thoroughly, irreversibly won our hearts.
Zydo is mischievous, mouthy and perpetually hungry. (When we brought our first miniature dachshund to the veterinarian many moons ago, he warned us, "If a dachshund won't eat, death is imminent.") Truly, anyone who saw Zydeco inhale his kibble would think we were starving him.
Trust me, we're not.
As a breed, dachshunds are notoriously stubborn. With advice from our friends at the MSPCA as well as our current vet, we signed Zydo up for obedience school. (Have you ever heard a dachshund laugh?) It began this past Tuesday evening. Neither husband nor daughter could get to the doggie daycare center two towns away in time, so I headed off alone. The first class was just for owners (or "handlers" as we were officially called). We bring the canines next week.
Over the course of two hours, I learned just how many things we were already doing wrong:
- Rewarding bad behavior
- Giving him attention for the wrong reasons
- Letting the little guy pull on the leash
- Letting him chew on our fingers and pants legs (not at the same time though)
- Plying him with too many treats
- Spoiling him with too many toys
- Saying "No" without the right inflection
- Saying "No" when we should be saying "Off," "Down," or "Gone"
"Oh crap," I thought, as I furiously took notes. "This is going to be harder than I thought." And, I wondered "How can I rework everyone's schedules so my daughter can take this over?"
To be fair, she was disappointed when the puppy class conflicted with a weekly lesson she teaches to a younger equestrienne. And if the time and effort she's put into training our other pet (the thousand-pound one) is any indication, I think my daughter would do a bang-up job with the pup.
If she can quit kissing and hugging him long enough.
On the way home, I thought about all the lessons little Zydo had in front of him. Then, I realized that he may be in the position to teach us a few lessons too. Like ...
- Be friendly; you never know when you'll meet a new playmate
- When you're happy, don't hold it in; run, jump and wag your tail
- Appreciate your food; clean your plate (lick it later if no one's looking)
- Naps are good
- So is a nice stretch
- So is cuddling, kissing and belly rubs
- Material possessions are meant to be chewed ... er, I mean, enjoyed
My daughter (and all the other self-absorbed, sometimes sullen, seventeen-year-olds) could probably learn a thing or two about optimism, seizing the moment and savoring it. Of course, she doesn't need any convincing on the nap front. Naps, she would agree, our good.
In the coming weeks, Zydo will learn to "Sit," "Stay," and "Come Here Now."
But, I hope he'll also — stubbornly — stay as loving and joyful as he's been since the day we brought him home. You see, we can all take a lesson.
If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my book Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.
With our sweet Billie out of the picture, we were back to where we'd started. My teenager, being a teenager, assumed the melodramatic worst. We would never find a puppy now and she would go off to college in less than two years without having had one. With a few more decades under my belt, I knew this was just a temporary set-back; there were plenty of other pups out there. But, after our bad experience, first with the unscrupulous breeder and then with our chosen dog's health issues, I was wary.
I began round two by looking at other breeders' sites. Many of them seemed legit — but, I reminded myself, so did the one we had originally found. A more pragmatic issue was that none of the sites had puppies for sale right now; they were all taking deposits on litters due later this spring, summer and fall. Clearly a delay of weeks or months was not going to go over well with the offspring.
Next, I tried some "Puppies for Sale" sites. There were several mini dachshunds available in neighboring states: Maine, New Hampshire, Connecticut. Prices were all over the board, with the fancier new varieties ("Piebald" or "English Cream," anyone?) going for $1,600 and more.
Who says you can't put a pricetag on love? Umm ... me, that would me.
I opted for more traditional coats (and costs), and quickly sent out several email inquiries.
The breeders must have thought I was a highly functioning neurotic or an undercover agent for the ASPCA (or both). Having been through our earlier misadventure, I gave each breeder the third degree. "How many dogs do you own?" "How many litters each year?" "Are they raised in your home?" "Have they been handled by children?" "What about their parents' health?" "Do you have past customers I can speak with?" "Are you listed with the Better Business Bureau?" "Have you been inspected?" "Are you licensed?" "Can we visit the puppy in your home?"
One thing I had learned was that many of the people who run puppy mills will offer to deliver your new dog to you. This is positioned as convenient customer service, but is actually a ploy to prevent you from seeing their operation.
Paranoia aside, I found a family in Maine that sounded ideal. They had several dogs (but not 72!), some rescues, only bred one litter a year. We were welcome to come up and see the puppies for ourselves. Our new dog would come with a clean bill of health from a vet, all of his first round of shots and microchipped. He was seven weeks old and we could pick him up the following Saturday.
"Not Saturday!" moaned my daughter. (Needless to say, I expected a more positive response to my announcement that I had found another puppy for us.) She would miss the pick-up because of her all-day job at the stable. She suggested that we bring the new pup there on our way home. Besides the fact that a stable detour would have added an hour to our trip, I didn't think that twenty horses and at least as many squealing girls was the most serene way to introduce the tiny dog to his new life.
She would simply have to wait until after work.
The horror!
My husband and I left early that morning, and within a few hours we were back again with the new member of the family. He sat calmly on my lap while we were in the car and cautiously explored his new surroundings once we got home. Soon, with the help of a few treats and a few squeaky toys, his more energetic side emerged. He's a mini long-haired dachshund, and his coat is what is known as dappled wild boar. His tail has rings like a raccoon. He is tiny (we're guessing 4 or 5 pounds now; eventually he'll top off at 10 or so). He is beautiful.
At 4:30 on the dot, my daughter pulled into our driveway. I was upstairs at the time, but it was impossible to miss the moment when she met the (her!) puppy.
"Ooooohhhhh!" she squealed, about two octaves higher than her natural voice. "Ohmigod, he's sooooooo cuuuuuute!"
It's been a long time since I've heard that level of enthusiastic joy from my often sullen, always blasé teen. But, I wasn't all that surprised.
After all, there was a puppy in da house.
If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.
When our wonderful dog died last July, my husband, teenage daughter and I agreed about two things. One, we would absolutely get another dog. And two, we needed to wait a while. Boogalie (that's Cajun for "little swamp monster") was such a big personality and such a big part of our lives for so long. He made it to 18 1/2; our vet was pretty sure that he was the oldest dog in our town.
By the holidays, we started thinking about a new puppy. We wanted another miniature dachshund, and began to research breeders. We found one in Western Mass that sounded ideal. They had an elaborate website with adorable pictures of new puppies, pages about puppy care, glowing testimonials, and a 5-page application for us to fill out. We put down a deposit and reserved a pup from a litter expected in January.
A couple of weeks later, there was a news story on every network in the greater Boston area. A puppy mill had been raided and 72 (72!) miniature dachshunds had been rescued from terrible conditions. They were malnourished, crowded into crates and cages, and some were being kept outside despite below-freezing temperatures.
And, yes, it was the "breeder" we were working with.
We were crushed. Not just because the puppy we were looking forward to was probably not in our future. It was more that we had been taken in by a business that presented itself so well online but was actually a terrible place.
You would think that because my agency creates websites for clients, I would be less gullible. But, first of all, their website was really good. And second, I guess we believe what we want to believe.
We got in touch with the MSPCA and learned that one of the rescued females was indeed pregnant. Once the litter was born, we could come in and apply to adopt one. Meanwhile, virtually all of the adults and puppies found homes.
Right around Super Bowl Sunday, we received an email that the puppies had been born (the foster family, Patriots fans, had named them Brady, Butler and Billie, short for Bill Belichick). Billie, the female, was ours. We were thrilled! When she was seven weeks old, we went out to visit her. By then, we weren't just thrilled; we were in love. She was a black and tan dapple and she had one blue eye and one brown.
The day before we were scheduled to pick her up, we received another email. The vets had found that Billie had a congenital spine defect. She would never have complete control of her hind legs. She might need significant medical care, and she absolutely wouldn't be able to live in a house with stairs.
Our house was built in 1830. It's crooked. It has stairs. Just from our patio through our kitchen to our family room, poor little Billie would have had to negotiate 6 level changes — nothing to you and me, but significant for a mini dachshund and, sadly, impossible for Billie.
As much as it broke our hearts, we had to pass on her and allow the MSPCA to find a more suitable home.
The happy news is that after a story about Billie ran on the local news, the MSPCA was inundated with inquiries. She's now with a family that has experience with disabled dogs. One of her new "moms" actually practices veterinary acupuncture. And, yes, they live in a single-level home.
Billie was where she should be and we were happy for her.
But where, we wondered, was our puppy?
If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.
