The Art of Snoozing

When nap time comes around, you can't just drop to the ground and start counting sheep.  There are certain protocols involved if you are going to do it right.

First, there is the "synchronized snooze maneuver", perfect if you are trying to fool people into thinking you are really only one dog and they need to get their eyeglass prescription checked:

Then there is the "mirror image dog" for when they have had their prescription checked and you want to convince them that they have obviously put their eyeglasses on backwards:

Lastly, there is the "pile o'dog" position, for when you really are too darn tired to give a damn what they and their eyeglasses think.

Let sleeping dogs lie....

Allow Myself to Introduce...Myself

I suppose since you have some background info already, it appears that perhaps formal introductions are in order.

Bodie and Leila were born on July 1st on a farm in Iowa.  They had plenty of siblings, and even a litter of cousins who were born two weeks prior.  So there was never a lack of playmates when running about on the back forty.  They also had nine human siblings to make a big fuss over them, so when they came to live with us, they were well socialized and ready for the rough-and-tumble play that comes with living in a  family with children.

Bodie is a shy and sweet boy.  He is a little cautious but will eventually get close enough for an ear rub or cuddle.  His first reaction when I put my hand down near him is to flinch, but then he sniffs and accepts a pat on the head.  He is never aggressive, doesn't play-bite, loves toys and rough-housing with his sister.  The first thing we noticed about Bodie was his big paws.  You can tell just by looking at those feet that he is going to a big guy!  Good thing he is so gentle.  Sometimes his gentle nature works against him, like when his sister flies in to steal his spotlight and he just fades back and lets her have it.  I'm sure there is an eye-roll in there somewhere!  His agenda is to let his sister try it first, then he'll follow if it's safe.  No fool there!  He is sly and conservative, but can be silly and charming when the time is right.

Leila is what we call the anti-Bodie.   She is very vocal, boisterous, and not lacking in energy in the slightest.  If I sit on the floor, she appears virtually from nowhere and piles into my lap like a football tackle, demanding to be noticed (which is hard not to do!)  She is also teething more than Bodie, and gnaws on anything within reach.  Her teeth do the talking, often saying things like "What a marvelous filet of flip-flop" or "Your toes are my favorite flavor!" or my favorite, "Pant leg?  Why yes, don't mind if I do!"  My forearms are so dotted with scabs they look like barnacles.  But for all her bravado and zeal, Leila is also a sensitive gal.  When the family cat gave her five sharp across the nose in response to her invading his space, Leila ran to the nearest human (in this case, me) for comfort and soothing, jumping into my lap and putting both paws on my shoulder and her face against my neck.  If she could have turned around and stuck her tongue out at the cat, I'm sure she would have.  She is a flirt, cheerleader and class clown all rolled into one.

The pups have been with us for three weeks now, and already they have put on more than six pounds each.  Like toddlers, they play hard in the morning, running outside with fully recharged batteries that only a good night's sleep or double-espresso can give (pretty sure it's the former with them but wouldn't put it past them) and then a few hours later, plop onto the cool granite fireplace hearth and crash like a house of a cards in a hurricane.  They will nap for a few hours which is when I usually do the same!  New mothering books always tell you "Sleep when the baby sleeps"....won't have to tell me twice!  By this point  in the day I am exhausted already.  I'm not quite sure who is adjusting to who's schedule here!  Maybe we are all just meeting in the middle for now.  They are getting more dialed into a routine, and I am trying to freak out just a little less when Bodie gets the hiccups or Leila is chewing on a stick of unknown origin.  New mothers are the same, no matter what the species, I suppose!

That Ain't Caviar

Some people say that puppies are like toddlers.  They have way more energy than you do, they put everything in their mouths, and no matter how well you think you "babyproofed" the house, they will find the one thing you left within reach and destroy it.  But there is one glaring difference between puppies and toddlers that I think many new parents take for granted.

Toddlers wear diapers.

Now, I for one certainly do not begrudge a puppy for answering the call of nature, and answering that call pretty much wherever they happen to be standing at the moment.  That's just how toddlers are.  These two pups had been stashed in this little crate for a good nine hours and I'm pretty sure the first thing on their mind upon getting out of there was "Where are the facilities?"  I was quite pleased (and very relieved!) to see that they had not pooped in the crate on the way over, and therefore covered each other in it by default.  Dogs have an innate desire not to soil their sleeping area and avoid doing their business there, but let's face it, even the most hardy of us can't hold it together for nine hours.  So when we got home and put the crate to the back yard and popped open the little door, I fully expected them to creep out and immediately high tail it to the grass and assume the position.  Which is exactly what they did!  All over the place in fact, and numerous times.  No worries, it all picks up with pooper-scoopers and bags.  But it's what came next that was both truly bizarre and not just a little bit horrifying.

They pooped, then whipped around and gobbled it up. 

What the hell???  This primal ritual was yet another indication that I certainly did not know all there was to know about the puppy mind.  What could possibly possess a pup to think that this was a delicacy?  These guys didn't just eat it, mind you, they devoured it, like it was the last jelly donut in the police station break room.  I had to physically hold Leila at bay as we were both vying for the sacred turd, but for vastly different reasons.  This new behavior led to the newest in what would become a series of household rules: supervise the puppies at all times when they are outside.  Stand in wait with plastic bag and paper towel at the ready.  Being young ones, the pups had to answer this particular call many times per day, and as I was soon to find out, night as well.  Picture me in my pajama pants, t-shirt, flannel jacket, Hawaiian-print flip-flops and flashlight at 3:30 a.m. on the cold wet grass trying to track down dog doo and getting it scooped up before it's owner got to it first.  Not a pretty sight on so many levels.

A few days later (and many poop battles, only a few of which I won) we took the pups into the vet for an initial check-up.  Needless to say, the poo-eating was at the top of my list of questions.  I was fully expecting the vet to rail me about what an irresponsible pet-owner I was to let such a vile ritual take place.  What do I do?  Do I change their dog food?  Get them a food additive?  Stomach pump?  Psychiatrist, maybe?  He just laughed and explained the term for this habit is called coprophagia.  I'm not sure what was more disturbing, the fact that it really wasn't that big of a deal or that it was so common they actually had a term for it.  He gave me a food additive powder to sprinkle over their dinner which will supposedly take the yummy protein smell (and taste, I hope!) out of the poop and they will leave it alone.  I did as I was instructed and was amazed to see that the pups made an all-out effort to eat the all around the powdered puppy kibble and hoover up only the un-sprinkled bits.  They were on to my ploy!  This was going to be a battle of wits, and I had the feeling I was on the losing side already.

Why had I spent $50 on cute-shaped puppy treats when all I had to do was grab a bag-load of faux-Tootsie rolls from the back lawn?   Stay tuned......

The Swiss Invasion

Sometimes sharing good news with friends and family can be a weird dynamic.  It's like when you tell your friends you are pregnant, and they automatically launch into tales of how they vomited for three straight weeks when THEY were pregnant, and how they were in labor for 72 hours, gained 70 pounds, blah blah blah.  Why is it they remember that crap more than the blessed event?  Why, even still, do they think you want to hear about it?  By that point it's a bit late for the have-you-thought-this-through discussion.

Sharing the news that we were about to become parents to two bernese mountain dogs was not terribly different.  I was surprised by the amount of good friends that gave a first response of "You must be crazy!" and "Two giant dogs?  Good luck with that!"  Did these people not recall that I had two wolfdog mixes not too long ago and lived to tell the tale?  I'm not exactly a rookie here.  Okay, maybe a rookie when it comes to actual puppies in the weeks-old sense instead of years-old but most family and friends zeroed in on the fact that this breed of dog gets big.  End of story. 

Funny thing was, they tell me this like they think I don't know that.  There is an annoying twang of better-you-than-me in their voices like they are sensing (hoping maybe?) an epic fail coming around the corner, which should prove to be quite entertaining.  At first I came up with feeble replies like "Yeah, I'm kinda crazy that way!" or "Hopefully I can handle it" until I realized I was making excuses for something I had no reason to excuse or apologize for.  Finally when the receptionist at the vet's office (who has seen it all, I imagine) said "Two???  Wow, you are going to have your hands full!" I was armed and ready.  I came back with "Yes, and I can't wait!"  That felt good!  Months of sitting at home playing computer solitaire and surfing the Hollywood gossip sites were going to come to a screeching halt and I was ready for the challenge.  Not only that, but I was more than ready to prove all the doubters wrong.  They're puppies, not neutron bombs, people.

The back story on how I found our two new additions and how we arranged to have them fly to us from Iowa with a layover in Dallas and how we bought a new SUV specifically so we could haul them home in style is a story for another time.  They came to join our family on September 4th and since I am behind in my recitations in this blog, I'll just cut to the airport scene.

First off, going to the airport to pick up puppies with two excited kids in tow is a recipe for disaster.  If you thought those "Are we there yet?" questions were annoying on your drive to Disneyland, try answering it every five minutes on the way to your destination and then again every two minutes while sitting on the edge of an airport baggage claim carousel, only now it's in the form of  "Are they here yet?"  When the rose-colored crate finally made an appearance in the special handling office, I thought the kids would keel over.  This was really happening!  My first thought was "Wow, I was expecting a bigger crate.  Are there really two of these guys in there?"  I will never again complain about my cramped middle seat in coach class with the guy in front of me reclined all the way...these guys were stuffed into this crate for nine hours!  My next thought was, "Let's get them out of there so they can stretch their legs before we drive home."

Yeah, maybe I'm a bit of a rookie after all.

We opened the door of the crate.  Both pups backed away, and Bodie (the brother) gave us his best WTF face while Leila (the sister) protested with  whiney-howl combo.  So much for that.  We figured we would just wait until we got home (another hour in the car) before attempting to extricate the crate contents again.  So for the next hour we listened to Leila howl and bark in protest in the back of the SUV and if we could see them, I swear we would have seen Bodie roll his eyes.  Siblings are siblings the world over, regardless of species.

Let the games begin!

Laying the Groundwork

Before Jack passed away, my kids were already flipping through dog books trying to decide what dog to get next. I'm sure they weren't trying to be insensitive, they were just trying to keep a sense of continuity. As I mentioned, they have never known our house without a big dog in it. They pictured themselves with a dog that would play with them, fetch a ball, watch through the window to see them come home from school, and all the other qualities a dog on a typical sitcom family would have. I have to concur, I always dreamed of owning a big dog that was impeccably trained: would walk diligently beside me without a leash, woke me up in the night to alert me of an intruder or fire, a regular Lassie-type that would bring me the paper (this dream was obviously pre-internet and mobile device, where I get all my news content nowadays....I have zero desire to have a large slobbery dog bring me my IPhone) and would understand every command and be eager and willing to please.

With the exception of the "big" part, Jack was none of these.

By August, the desire to fill the void left by Jack bubbled to the surface and I set out on a journey to find a new dog that would fulfill my dreams and hopefully give the kids their sitcom-family pet as well. in February I had instinctively taped the Westminster Dog Show on the DVR and had yet to watch it...maybe an omen? I knew that is I was going to sell my husband on getting a new (big) dog I was going to have to do some research that went beyond pictures in a book. I was going to have to enter the fight fully-armed, with video! I sat down with a pen and pad of paper to watch the show and jot down the times on the DVR when a dog would come up that I liked.

Although I already knew what I was looking for.

I jotted down a few breeds and where they were in the show, just to make it look like I was giving him options, but the one I wrote down in bold face and underlined was the one I knew it had to be.

The Bernese Mountain Dog.

So......just what was I getting myself into?

In The Beginning

I have always been a big-dog person.

My first dog after leaving home was a husky-wolf mix, Misha. She was tall, wooly, and quite a commanding presence when walking the aisles of the pet supply store. After moving to our new house in the California Valley, we decided she needs a friend to spend her days with so we rescued another homeless wolfdog hybrid, Jack. This guy was even bigger, even woollier, and looked a lot more wolf than malamute he was supposedly crossed with. This guy had no manners, knew no boundaries, and took over the house as his own. Instead of teaching him right from wrong, we just learned to adapt. As we always said, "It's Jack's world, we just live in it." This phrase was usually followed by a very heavy sigh.

In the summer of 2000, Misha died of bone cancer. It was a traumatic time for us, a raw pain I didn't know I could experience. The only saving grace for my husband and I was the birth of our daughter two months earlier. We found solace and comfort in her. Jack missed his friend but it was hard to tell if he took out his grief with bad behavior, since his behavior was not the greatest to start with. he always played by his own rules and was not about to have a change of heart now.

Fast forward to 2010. Our daughter is ten years old now, and was joined by her brother in 2003. The kids have always known of our house with a big aloof dog in it. He has seniority. Jack is fifteen years old now, a good stretch for a dog his size. His hips have been giving out for some time now, but he always managed to make do. Sometimes we had to help him up by putting a towel beneath him and using it as a sling to help him up. He finally got to the point where even that was not enough; he could not stand for more than a few steps without falling over again. Finally, on the Monday after Easter, Jack made his final trip to the vet. The kids got to say their goodbyes and my husband and I lifted him on a piece of wood into the back of the truck. It was excruciating to see him go. his heart, his lungs, his eyes, all his organs were in perfect working order, his bones had just given up the fight.  Father Time can be cruel that way.

A few days later the kids went back to school, the husband went back to work and I was here in this house alone for the first time ever. The silence was deafening. Jack was not a cuddly dog, never played with toys, never fetched a ball, never came when called. But I know he loved us and his absence felt like a heavy woolen blanket laid across my shoulders. I tried to put a positive spin where I could, like thinking about taking our summer vacation without having to pay the dog sitter to come to the house or worry about him in his pen in the yard in the summer heat. But even I knew those excuses were only going to take me so far.

I miss Jack terribly, and I know he is up there on the couch-he-is-not-supposed-to-be-on in the sky, probably with Misha by his side.

But this blog is not about Jack. This blog is about how Jack taught me all the lessons that would most likely prove to be completely useless in my next adventure.

Fast forward again to September 2010.....The Swiss Invasion.