In Memoriam: How I Found Her

It was four years after I was diagnosed with CFS, and I was still mourning the professional life that the illness had forced me to abandon.  I wanted to do something meaningful, to make a mark in the world, no matter how small.  And that is how I conceived the idea of getting a dog--not a dog from a breeder, but one I would rescue from a shelter and rehabilitate.  A female, preferably of a large breed.

Why rescue a dog instead of, say, tutoring school children?  A dog, as I saw it, would not involve specific time commitments like most volunteer activities.  I would work with her at home, on my own schedule, as my symptoms allowed.  I could space bits of training throughout the day, and even on a bad day, we could practice down-stays.

I thought I could help some neglected, frantic girl dog become calmer, better behaved, more secure around people, happier.  I could see myself welcoming the poor wretch into my peaceful home, introducing order and structure into her life, grooming her and feeding her properly.  I would take her for walks, to obedience, and to play dates with other dogs.  As a result of all this mental stimulation, her natural intelligence would blossom and she would bond to me in gratitude and affection.  I could see her in my mind's eye, shining with health and vitality, going everywhere with me—the perfect companion of my lonely days.

I called the animal shelter and told them what I was looking for.  They said they would keep me in mind and give me a call if any prospects turned up.  I didn't have to wait long for the phone to ring.  A man who fostered dogs for the shelter was bringing several of them to the nearby pet store for an adopt-a-thon the next day.  Among them was a four-month-old sable German Shepherd puppy.  A female.  Would I like to see her?

That morning I used my newly-acquired smattering of meditation techniques to prepare myself for the encounter.  I thought that if I met the puppy with a clear mind and a spacious heart, the right decision might become obvious.

It was a Saturday morning, and the store was teeming with people.  I found the man with the dogs.  Like a salesman inviting me to take a used car for a spin, he handed me the end of a leash and said, “This is Lexus.  Why don't you walk around while I take care of these other dogs.” 

“Lexus?” I asked.

The man rolled his eyes.  “The kid who had her was really into cars,” he said.

Even on a temporary basis, I refused to call any dog “Lexus.”  Instead, I patted my thigh and said “Come on, puppy.  Let's go for a walk.”

 When she heard me talking to her, she looked up into my face, and I got my first good look at hers.  It was a clever little face, well marked with a dark muzzle and Nefertiti eyes, a black widow's peak and big, upright, bat-like ears she'd have to grow into.  Her body was compact, and her cream-colored hind legs did not have the exaggerated angulation of American show-bred German Shepherds.  Her tail, alas, curved energetically up over her hips.

I mourned the tail's departure from the breed standard (German Shepherds carry their tails low), but was taken by the puppy's intelligent, intense look.  She was by no means leash trained, veering from one side of the aisle to the other as the smells of kibble and treats and toys called out to her, but whenever I spoke to her she would look at me.  Underneath that puppy craziness, I felt, was a really good dog.

That afternoon, the man brought her to the house.  He told us that Lexi (as I had decided to call her) had been picked up by a teenage boy who lived in a cabin with his parents, somewhere in the Maryland woods.  The puppy had spent her life outside, by herself, not abused but hardly clasped to the bosom of the family who, when they had to move away, surrendered her to the shelter.

My first memory of Lexi in the house is of her jumping all over the furniture. I left her with my husband and went back to the pet store to buy a large crate, which I put in our bedroom.  Lexi slept in it uncomplainingly that night, and for the next few days, whenever I left the house, I put her in it.  It soon became obvious, however, that she didn't need the crate.  She, who had never lived in a house, house-trained herself instantly—I can only remember a single accident.  As for jumping on the furniture, I only had to mention it once.

The hard part was taking her places.  The combination of manic excitement on the one hand and lack of exposure to cars, trucks, bicycles, strollers, skateboards and roller skates on the other, turned Lexi into a whirling dervish—an alternately frantic and cowering dervish—whenever we left the house.

I knew that this lack of exposure was the major problem with her upbringing, and it was my job to fix it.  This was, after all, the challenge I had been looking for, the service project that would make my life feel less of a wasteland.  Dutifully, every day or so I would put Lexi in the car and drive to a nearby mall.  There I would walk her around the outside, encouraging her to follow me past noisy trucks, allowing her to go up to people of all sizes and colors to make friends. 

It was daunting, and exhausting.  Even at just forty pounds, she was a powerful dog, and I, with my CFS-impaired balance, was not too steady on my feet.  A couple of times she was startled by a passing car and wrapped the leash around my ankles.  The next thing I knew I was picking myself up off the sidewalk while she leaped around me, excited by the view of my face at eye level.  It seemed to take forever, but the day when I finally got her to hold a sit-stay next to an armored truck, I knew we were making progress.  (To be continued.)

Mouse On My Toe

Went to give lunch to a litter of Bisou's half siblings yesterday, while their owner took a well-deserved break.  On the kitchen counter were copious instructions, and also a note saying that Zen, the cat, had released a live field mouse in the house earlier that day.

Following instructions, I carried the four puppies one by one to their outdoor pen, cleaned their indoor pen, and made lunch.  Then I carried the puppies in, one at a time, to eat, starting with the single female pup who, like her half-sister who lives at my house, acted like she hadn't seen food in a week.

I was on the second or third puppy when I felt something warm and soft on my foot.  I looked down, and there was Zen's mouse, sitting on my bare toe, watching the puppy eat.  I bent down to get a closer look, but the mouse scurried under the fridge.  He made a few more sorties while I finished up, but kept his distance.

I'm going to feed the puppies again today.  Maybe I'll get lucky, and Zen's mouse will still be there.

Zen Puppy

Did the title scare you? Did you think I'd completely lost my mind, and gotten another dog? Relax. The real truth is only slightly less insane.

The puppy I'm referring to is Teddy, another of Bisou's littermates. When my younger daughter and her partner were here at Christmas, they grew fond of the cuddly side of Bisou, and when they met Teddy, to whom Bisou doesn't hold a candle in the cuddliness department, they fell in love. They decided to adopt him, but there was no time to arrange to take him back with them to Montana. Hence Alison's lightning quick trip to pick him up this week.

Teddy is a lovely black-and-tan Cavalier, and, bar none, the cuddliest dog--no, animal--I have ever encountered. You pick him up and he melts in your arms, and stays there, eyes half closed, meditating. He is also a "special needs" puppy. He was born with a rare heart defect (not the typical heart troubles that haunt the breed), and this means that, though he appears perfectly healthy and requires no treatment, he may die suddenly, without any warning. The average life span of dogs with this problem is about five years.

My daughter and her partner, who are soulful people, decided to take on this bundle of joy and possible heartbreak, knowing full well what they were getting into. I think that it was Teddy's Zen qualities that made him so attractive: not just his serene demeanor, but the fact that he is a walking lesson in non-attachment, a living sermon on how to live, namely, for today, since that is all any of us have.

We went to get Teddy yesterday morning, and delivered him and his new mistress in Albany tonight. In the intervening hours, he lived in our house with Lexi, Wolfie and Bisou. Lexi took one sniff and wandered away, except that she did not think that Teddy should be permitted to go from the living room into the kitchen. Wolfie took many sniffs and tried to do some dominance mounting, which was difficult since he outweighs Teddy by 80 pounds. This told us that the retiring Teddy, who has not yet been neutered, was giving off enough testosterone-laden whiffs that Wolfie felt compelled to let him know who was the male in charge of the pack.

I don't think Bisou even stopped to take a sniff before flinging herself upon her brother, growling and rolling him over until we stepped in and took her away. "But it's my brother!" she whined, wriggling out of our grasp, "let me at him!" And the growling and the rolling would begin all over again. And we would take her away again, because it's one thing to watch Bisou fling herself upon Bear, who is bigger than she and who gives as good as he gets. But Teddy, because of his mild demeanor and because of what we know about him, aroused all our protective instincts and made Bisou look like a menace.

There was one moment of peace today, however. This was when we all came back from a walk on our new trail, and the puppies collapsed exhausted (Bisou spreadeagled on top of Teddy) on a sheepskin rug. They looked so charming with their floppy ears fanned out that one of us stood up and got the camera. Unfortunately, that woke Bisou up, and the circus started all over again.

Early tomorrow morning Alison and her little black-and-tan Buddha will get on a plane for the long trip back to Montana. May they be safe, may they be happy, may they live in peace....

Nuthatch, Chickadee

Chickadees and nuthatches are the mainstays at our feeder in winter, and I think they kind of "go" with the look of the landscape--elegant black and white, with subtle blue or rosy shadings that mimic the play of afternoon sun on snow.

Both are tiny birds, but the chickadees look cuddlier than the nuthatches. Nuthatches are more streamlined. They have small heads and long beaks--adult proportions. Chickadees are "neotenic"--they have the kind of features that remind us of babies and trigger the cuddling response. Puppies and kittens are neotenic with a vengeance: big heads, widely spaced eyes, tiny muzzles. That's why we fall victim to them, even when we ought to know better. Chickadees--even the bossy adult males--look like babies too: their heads are round and large in proportion to their bodies, their eyes are wide apart, and their beaks are the size of a niger seed: the very essence of cuteness.

It was sunny today, and cold, but in the middle of the day you could actually feel the warmth of the sun. And up in the bare branches of a birch a chickadee could feel it too, and sang its song with extra oomph: "Heeere sweetie, sweetie, sweetie!"

Before you know it, the sweetie will answer the call, and then spring will really be on its way.

Spiritual Practice: Housetraining Bisou

The good news is that Bisou hasn't had an accident in the house in a month or so. The other news is that it takes a bit of an effort to achieve this.

She's six months old now, and her metabolism has slowed down significantly. This means two or three poops a day as opposed to six or eight. So that helps.

Also, she has figured out that P1 and P2 belong outside. She becomes agitated and runs to the back door when the urges strike. If I clip the leash onto her collar and take her outside, with a little encouragement she takes care of things quickly, and then can be trusted indoors for a couple of hours or so.

But, reader, this is winter in Vermont. When Bisou does her little dance at the back door, I have the choice of putting on gloves, coat, hat, and boots and going out with her into the elements(and then undressing again)--or of simply sending her out with instructions and watching her through the sliding door.

But Bisou (for those whom her fame has not yet reached)is a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel. The "Cavalier" refers to her attitude towards life in general, and I haven't figured out the "King Charles" part yet. But the Spaniel in her means she is driven by her little button nose, impelled to follow every rabbit foot print, every whiff of feather, oblivious to the signals from her vitals.

I stand at the sliding door and watch her as she goes back and forth across the snow, farther and farther into the woods, clearly having forgotten why she's there. As she weaves her way behind trees and bushes, I have no idea whether she has done the deed. I watch until I start to worry that she will disappear--perhaps be picked up by an owl. I become aware that I am not feeling serene or centered or grounded, but anxious and perturbed.

I call her--"Bisou!!" She stops--a red speck in all the whiteness--and looks at me as if she's never seen me before in her life. I put a falsely jolly tone in my voice and call again. Suddenly her entire past life comes back to her, and she rushes at me like a bullet.

This is all very nice, but a minute later she's at the door again, agitated. This time I abandon the fireside, heave a deep sigh, dress from hat to boots, clip the leash on her collar, lead her outside, and in a matter of seconds the mission is accomplished.

She's happy. I'm happy. She curls up on the arm chair; I sit before the fire.

The lesson that I cannot seem to learn is that SHE IS NOT READY TO GO OUTSIDE ON HER OWN. She is too young to withstand the temptations of rabbit and squirrel and bird scent. She still needs help. But me, I'm always pushing forward. She's signaling to be let out? Well, then, she SHOULD be able to manage the whole business by herself. Why should I waste minutes of my life putting on clothes and taking them off when she SHOULD be able to take care of things alone?

My unrealistic expectations are usually disappointed, and I have to get dressed anyway, and take her outside and stand there looking at the rising sun, or at the birds at the feeder, or at the stars (and in Vermont, we've got STARS). I could decide to just accept the putting on and taking off of clothing for the rest of the season. I could accept the notion of six or seven daily bathroom trips outside.

I could use the time to reflect on life issues, or to plan what I'm going to make for dinner, or I could just focus on the Red Baroness, who is doing her best to be a good girl, and all the pleasure she brings into my life. Wouldn't that make sense?

House Training Lament

Bisou, Bisou, what is going on with you? You will be five months old tomorrow, a well-grown pup in every way, lithe, well muscled, agile and coordinated. In just another couple of months you may, according to the norms of your breed, attain puberty. You are at the end of your puppyhood, and yet you are not house trained.

A couple of weeks ago, I thought you almost were. I would let you out with the big dogs and you would get right down to business. But since the snow arrived, I've been finding your petites horreurs in the house.

I would have expected that the heavy frosts would have dulled the outdoor smells, made the back yard less interesting. On the contrary, when I let you out onto the snow you run around sniffing and digging and doing everything except what you're supposed to do. So despite the snow and ice and cold and wind I have been taking you out on a leash, as if you were a two-month old baby, and standing in the swirling elements while you run in circles around me and do, or do not do, your business.

I know exactly what the experts say to do when a puppy breaks house training: go back to square one. Back to the crate, back to constant supervision, back to the umbilical leash. (This last means that one clips the leash to the puppy's collar, ties the other end to one's belt, and goes about one's business trying very hard not to trip over the dog.) Basically, square one means that the puppy is either confined to the crate or under one's watchful eye 24/7.

Two days ago, that's what I did, remember, Bisou? You stared at me uncomprehendingly when I hooked your leash on the kitchen doorknob so I could eat breakfast in peace. When I tied your leash to my waist while I folded laundry, you tugged and chewed and stood on your hind legs, trying to get away. And when I put you in your crate during the daytime you protest with a repertory of yelps and yodelings designed to melt my heart.

You would think all this discipline would have an effect on you. But no. You are still distracted and unfocussed when I take you outside. And today, after our nap together, I followed you downstairs to let you out (I didn't want to put a leash on you because I thought we might trip going down the stairs). By the time I got to the back door, Wolfie and Lexi were there, but you weren't. I found you in the dining room, looking out the window. But I was suspicious, and found under the table...yes, another of your sins.

How can you be so fast and focused indoors, so slow and distracted outside? I have heard that lapdogs can sometimes be hard to house train. I know you think you're an Irish Setter, Bisou, what with your red feathers and gorgeous ears, but you are in fact a lapdog, and I'm worried.

In fewer than ten days, there will be eight people and three dogs in this house. There will be a Christmas tree, and the usual hoopla and confusion. And I will not be able to focus exclusively on you, Bisou. Things have to get better, fast. They will, won't they, Bisou?

Big Snow, Little Dog

Snow storms are thrilling and beautiful, but they can seriously interfere with the lives of people such as truck drivers, emergency personnel, and those who, like me, are house training a puppy.

I let the dogs out into the back yard this morning, and stood watching at the window. Like many other parts of the country, we were experiencing the first serious storm of the season. The snow was falling thickly. It would sweep furiously past the house from left to right. Then a truckload of it would drop from above, and then more snow would blow from right to left. A big blast would come barreling out of the woods, aiming straight for the house, obliterating the view. The wind would die down for a minute, then start up again, howling.

I stood there for a very long time, but I wasn't focusing on the snow. I was watching Bisou try to pee in her first blizzard.

Normally when I let her out, no matter how long it's been since her last bathroom event, she first pays a visit to the bird feeder. What is it with dogs and bird feeders? Do they crave some secret nutrient in sunflower seed hulls? I suspect that they are after the tiny bird poops, which must seem to them like those little candy sprinkles you put on cakes.

After vacuuming the ground around the feeder, Bisou goes for a little walk. It starts out as a relaxed trot, then gradually speeds up as she circles more and more urgently until suddenly, as if hit by lightning, she squats, and it's done. I breathe a sigh of relief and break out in songs of praise and thanksgiving (it's very important not to skip those). We do this, oh, 27 times a day, every day.

This morning, in the blizzard, Bisou went straight to the bird feeder, then took off on her little walk. But the little walk went on and on. Up to her elbows in snow, she trotted right, then left, then back to the bird feeder to make sure she hadn't missed a hull. Periodically she would stick her head in the snow, sniffing for bathroom spots of yore. But they had vanished.

The blizzard raged, and I needed to go milk the goats, but Bisou was still running around all over the yard. I knew it would be folly to call her into the house, but how long was this going to take?

Finally she took off into the woods. I could see her little red body against the snow, and there must have been some magic under the trees, because suddenly inspiration struck, and she went into a squat.

English As A Second Language

I spent a lot of years teaching Romance Languages to English-speakers. Now I'm teaching English As A Second Language to my Cavalier King Charles puppy, Bisou.

She came to us at the age of nine weeks already fluent in Dog. Despite looking like she belonged to a different species from my two German Shepherds (pendulous ears, shortish nose, red coat) from day one she fit seamlessly into their society. She understood the (to me) invisible and inaudible warnings from Lexi that told her not to trespass in certain (to me) mysterious areas of the living room. She knew she could leap up endlessly to bite Wolfie's muzzle, but that at certain points in the dialogue she must flip over like an omelette and lie very still on her back. She understood, without the need of a single growl or snap, that she was never to wander over to the big dogs' feeding bowls at dinner time.

Dog is mostly a silent language, composed of signs and subtle moves. A few gifted humans understand a small percentage of these. In Dog, I am at the phrase-book stage—about the same level as Bisou's grasp of English As A Second Language.

She is making progress though. She knows “waitttt!” and “sitttt!” and “outside” and “inside” and “do your business!” followed by “good girl!” and “treat!” She knows “come!” but sometimes pretends she's forgotten. She knows her name, with variations: “Bisou, Beez, Bisoulette.”

As in all elementary classes, I try to keep things simple. “Toy” for the moment must stand for “bone, ball, and tiny bear.” Discriminating among bone, ball, and bear will come in the advanced stages. Her vocabulary right now is composed mostly of nouns, and of verbs in the imperative.

Given the nature of our relationship with dogs, the verbs will continue to be mostly in the imperative. (Most of my utterances to Wolfie are imperatives: get in the car, bring me the sheep, find Bisou!) There will just be more and more of them.

But we won't stop there. Soon I'll throw in some subjunctives (if you were to have a bath you would smell better) and interrogatives (why did you jump on the sofa with muddy feet?) and she'll look at me with her big eyes and act as if she understands every word.

And she will understand every word—just not my English words, but the other ones, the ones that I transmit by posture, tone and smell, and that reveal what I really mean. The ones in Dog.

Bisou's Tail

Thwap, thwap, thwap. Thwap, thwap, thwap.

In the six weeks that Bisou has been with us, this metronome has become the measure of my days. I walk in front of her crate when she's supposed to be napping and thwap, thwap, her tail lets me know she knows I know she's awake. We're waiting our turn to demonstrate our (meager) skills in puppy class and thwap, thwap, THWAP, isn't it our turn yet? I pick her up out of the welter of her siblings at the end of a play date and thwap, thwap, her tail beats against my side—oh, there you are, SO glad to see you again!

Her tail is only 10” long, so no threat to coffee tables. It's a skinny tail—partly from all that wagging, but partly because Bisou hasn't grown her “feathers” yet. For those of you who don't know about “dog feathers”: they're the swishy bits of hair that swing in the breeze when dogs such as setters and spaniels run through meadows. The beginning of Bisou's feathers is showing as basically a bad haircut—random long hairs sticking out along the back of her legs, between her toes, and at the tip of her tail.

At the very tip of her tail, Bisou's future feathers, instead of hanging down like icicles off an eave, project in four different directions--north, south, east and west--on an axis perpendicular to her spine. In other words, she looks like she has a set of tiny helicopter blades at the end of her tail, and she could take off any minute.

Not that she needs helicopter blades. This is a dog with wings. She long ago mastered leaping onto sofas, and from there onto occasional tables. She transitioned to beds by leaping onto her crate, then clearing the gap between it and the bed in one graceful leap. Now the crate is obsolete, for leaping purposes anyway. She can go anywhere she wants to, and does.

Someday Bisou's feathers will grow in, and her shiny red coat will look sensational in its longer version. But I will miss the silly puppy look, and I hope the tail, in all its flaming glory, doesn't lose its wag.

Puppy For Sale

No! Just kidding! Bisou is the light of my life. However, like all the beings who light up one's life, she has her dark side too. She's four months old, and growing in grace and beauty in many ways. In other ways, she's going to hell in a handbasket.

Two and a half years ago, I was going through Wolfie's puppyhood in the midst of a hard winter—not an easy time, but I remember it as easier than this. Was I that much younger then? One thing I know for sure: by the time he was four months old, he was three times bigger than Bisou is now. He was expected to be smart—he was a German-bred German Shepherd, after all--and we were all extremely concerned not to encourage habits that would become intolerable in a 95lb, scary-looking dog.

Bisou, on the other hand, is small, and cute, and no one will ever be threatened by her. But don't let her dainty looks deceive you. She's every bit the dog that Wolfie is, and she's not giving any signs of becoming “just a lap dog.”

Let us look at the positive side first. Bisou's GI system seems to have settled somewhat and she no longer needs to go outside 97 times/day—only 25 times or so, and believe me, it makes a difference in my life. Also, she can go out on her own, and comes back happily if I hold a piece of puppy kibble out to her. She was sleeping through the night until the time change changed everything. She holds a stay while I put her food dish down. And she has the best eye contact of any dog I've ever known.

But little dogs grow fast, and Bisou is exhibiting clear pre-teen behaviors. When she came to us at nine weeks, she was a fabulous retriever, running after anything you threw and bringing it faithfully back. Not anymore. How silly, how infantile, I can hear her thinking, to assume that you have to return that ball or bone when you can keep it for yourself and kill it over and over again.

Gone too are the days when her greatest joy was to follow me around the house or yard. Now her greatest joy is to see how far away she can get from me, how long she can resist my call, how much exotic poop (deer, rabbit, bird, etc.) she can sniff and, alas, dive into.

Her father is a Mach IV Agility Champion, which I guess is a good thing. In Bisou's daily life, however, this heritage translates into jumping up on sofas, and from there onto occasional tables. The conjugal bed? No problem. She leaps up on her crate and flies over the gap between it and my warm body.

She came with a trousseau of tiny puppy toys from her breeder, all but one of which have mysteriously disappeared. Instead she prefers Wolfie's toys—stone-hard beef bones, a rubber bone that's as long as she is, and, best of all, the teat attachment from a milking machine (the quintessential Vermont puppy toy). She likes furniture, too—there's nothing like the crunch of the bentwood rocking chair, especially after it's been sprayed with Bitter Apple. And she loves to pull the computer cord out of the socket. I know, I know. Danger of electrocution. But she's faster than I am, and sometimes I just have to blink.

She's developing her vocal repertoire—mostly whines and pitiful complaints at being crated. But yesterday, sitting on my lap inside the house, she alerted to the nine deer in the front field and barked so loudly that they gave up and retreated into the woods.

What obedience skills, you ask, has she developed lately? Can she sit? Yes, sometimes. Will she lie down on command? Maybe—I haven't tried that in a while. Does she walk calmly on a loose leash? Hah! In your (and my) dreams.

I think we have a case here of second-child syndrome. You know, the first child—Wolfie--gets the full brunt of the parent's best intentions. He is watched, corrected, disciplined, brought up strictly by the book. By the time the second child arrives, the parent has mellowed, or gotten old, or gotten tired. She watches with a half smile as the second child evolves, hoping for the best. And sometimes gets it.

Puppy Sleeps Through Night. Owner's Worldview Drastically Improved

Would you call midnight to 5:55 a.m. “sleeping through the night”? You would if, like me, you'd been getting no more than three or four hours of sleep at a time for weeks.

Everything Macbeth said about sleep is right on the mark. I got up this morning and felt that the raveled sleeve of each day's care had been definitely knitted up.

It's amazing how affable and rational—how Zen, even--I can be when I've had some uninterrupted sleep. Lexi and Wolfie snack on the garden compost before breakfast—well, they're dogs, aren't they? Bisou insists, for the second time in ten minutes, that she must go outside—she's a puppy, what do I expect? The hens, healthy and fat, are still not laying—they're just late bloomers. They'll lay when the time is right.

I could describe in detail what I'm like on the mornings when, having been awakened by Bisou at three a.m., it takes me until four thirty to fall asleep, only to have the alarm clock ring at seven. But I won't. Suffice it to say that I can be seen creeping about the kitchen like Quasimodo, in full-blown existential angst, feeling sorry for myself and wondering what I've done to deserve all this.

Here's the header on a website on puppy training I came across recently:
“ 'It was the best of times. It was the worst of times.' Charles Dickens must have had a puppy.”

Puppy Play Date

Bisou's littermate, Bear, came over for a play date yesterday. In preparation, I removed the rug from the downstairs bedroom, moved the electric cords out of the way, and put down a selection of toys.

It had rained hard all morning, and Bear's owner and I were both weary from trying to get our respective puppies to do their business in the downpour. By the time we got together we were damp and frazzled and wondering what on earth had possessed us to get these dogs.

The minute we put Bear and Bisou down on the floor, there began a speeded-up Keystone Cops routine that continued non-stop for the better part of two hours. We did at one point forcibly separate the puppies and take them outside (it was only raining a little by then) to relieve themselves, but as soon as they were loose indoors again, the craziness resumed.

They stood on their hind legs and put their arms around each other's neck, then took turns knocking each other to the ground. The victim lay on his/her back while the victor stood triumphantly over him/her. Then the tables would turn and the victim would become the victor, and so on, forever and ever, world without end. You would think that after 30 or 40 minutes of this the pace would have slackened. Not at all. The wrestling and chasing and tug-of-warring went on unabated the entire time.

Bear and Bisou, who were the largest puppies in the litter, look quite different from each other. He is a “Black And Tan”; she is a “Ruby.” He is built like a little wrestler, with broad chest and shoulders. She is narrower and more feminine, as she ought to be. But there's nothing dainty about her affect. Throughout the play session, she gave as good as she got, and, unlike her silent brother, kept up an incessant rabid growl.

My friend and I sat on the sofa and tried to converse, but it's hard to have a rational dialogue when your eyes are tracking the whirlwind.

After our guests left, I gathered the toys, fed Bisou, and prepared myself for a silent, peaceful evening unbroken by puppy needs.

But I was wrong. As far as I could tell, the Bear interlude had only served to stimulate Bisou's nervous system rather than exhaust it. She was her usual self, and disappointed me grievously by not sleeping a minute longer than usual in the night. And today she was more full of energy than ever. She ran down the driveway as fast as her short legs would carry her. She ran mad circles around me. She ran far away so I could call her and she could run even faster towards me. On the still-green grass, she looked like an orange blur, her ears flapping, her skinny tail held high.

All in all, the play date was a success. The siblings had fun; my friend and I got to trade puppy horror stories; and Bisou got conditioned to an even higher level of athletic performance.

Bisou At Three Months

She's red, and getting redder, and she's feisty. Dog people say “Well, she's a red-head,” and give me knowing looks. She's the biggest, though perhaps not the heaviest, of her litter--almost as big as her mother. I suspect she has Irish Setter genes . (So much for my hopes for a tiny, easy-to-carry pup.) She has the best eye contact of any puppy I've ever had, which gives me hope in my darkest moments. She knows how to wait while I put her food bowl down, and to look at me before she plunges in. But she's not terrific at housebreaking—if I don't keep my eye on her every minute, or keep her in the crate, we have disasters.

She's learning to inhibit her bite, which makes handling her a lot less painful these days. When she's out in the field and I call her, she comes barreling to me. I don't have any illusions that this will last, though. In another month or so, when she's in her teens, she'll find the merest deer poop more interesting than me.

Speaking of which, she has already discovered the glories of goat and chicken and yes, deer poop. It dismays me to think that this royally-bred dog is supplementing her diet this way. But who knows what horrors her ancestors delved into in the court of Charles II—I mean, chamber pots and all. I'm resigned to the fact that she's a Vermont Cavalier, and like all Vermont aristocrats, she wears mud and manure on her leg feathers.

She knows to skirt respectfully around Lexi's invisible domains in the house, and she adores Wolfie. They lie on their sides, face to face, and play mouth games, by which I mean that her whole head ends up inside his mouth. But I cannot let them play together outside—he travels too fast, and sometimes has trouble braking as he gets to her.

She fulfills to the hilt the ancient names of “comfort spaniel” and “spaniel gentle.”
Never was there a cozier dog to nap with. She groans with pleasure as I draw the afghan over us, and falls blissfully asleep, right up against me. While Lexi and Wolfie disdain dog beds—a rug is the most they'll consent to lie on in the coldest nights—Bisou is a sofa lover, and an afghan connoisseur. And above all, she loves laps.

Reading this over, it sounds pretty idyllic. I'll have to remember it at 6 tomorrow morning, as I stand on the frozen grass while Bisou gazes as the stars.

Petting Zoo

The still-unnamed baby goats were born two weeks ago today, and since then hardly a day has gone by without someone coming over to meet them, and the puppy Bisou.

Women have come, and children, and grown men too. The ritual is as follows: I usher them into the garage, through the tiny door (watch your head!) into the milking room, and into the goat sanctuary. I bend down and pick up the babies and hand one to each visitor.

The goat kids are used to this, and only thrash and bleat if the visitor neglects to support their hind quarters. Otherwise they sit quietly in the (to them) stranger's arms, grunting softly and smelling of hay. The humans' reaction is more intense, and pretty much identical across genders and ages: people coo and moan and speak in high-pitched voices, and bury their noses in the soft fur. They stand there and hold those babies against their chest and get a far-away look in their eyes. You can tell that something deep in their DNA is being addressed by those little goats.

When they recover I lead them out and bring Bisou to meet them, and the same scenario, with minor variations, ensues. The variations are due to Bisou's being way more wiggly than the goats, and her lack of hesitation to lick people's faces and bite their fingers with her needle teeth. So she gets put down more quickly. But the talk and the voice tones with which she is addressed are essentially the same.

After the animal babies are put away, my friends thank me for letting them come. “We're so glad you're doing this,” they say, “so we can enjoy it. It must be a lot of work!”

And it is.

Garden Woes

The down side of having all these critters is that the garden is going to hell in a hand basket. My vegetable garden and my once-decent flower beds are all looking orphaned and bedraggled, crying for a blanket of snow to cover their shame.

This is the time in Vermont when gardeners start putting away their trowels, but when they do so they leave behind neatly composted beds, trimmed of dead stems and mildewed detritus. I bet some of them even clean and oil their tools, even scrub out their flower pots and rinse them in bleach. But they don't have new puppies, or baby goats.

Let me take you on a tour of my disgraceful end-of-season garden. Proceeding in an orderly fashion from front to back the first thing you will observe is a tiny stick-like tree, a baby Japanese maple that the deer have attacked. The wee brave thing is still alive, however, as evidenced by the leaf buds on some limbs. A timely wrapping with burlap would ensure its surviving both deer and the coming blizzards, and I must do that one of these days.

Regard the flower beds along the front of the house. What is that white stuff sticking out from under the mulch like a slip showing under a skirt hem? It is plastic, placed there by me in better days to kill the noxious Bishop's Weed. It wouldn't take five minutes to tuck it all in neatly, and I would feel much better, but who has five minutes? The low-growing thyme that I planted among the flagstones would also feel much better if it got one last weeding—a two-hour job that I could do if Bisou were to lapse into a coma some day.

Ignore the mildewed lilacs and come to the back of the house. Yes, this is the vegetable garden: the deceased zucchini plant, the half-drowned peppers and eggplants, the pale tomatoes—all victims of this rainy summer and fall. The green crops—the kale and chard—are doing fine. Even the broccoli, gnawed into lace by snails, is still producing. The green beans, planted too late, are in full bloom, waiting to perish at the first frost.

Watch out, or you'll get snagged by the untrimmed rose bush! See how pathetic the flower bed by the back door looks: mildewed Echinacea, puny sage and thyme, a single nasturtium, clover everywhere. It would look even worse if the various mints—apple, orange, spear, and lemon balm—hadn't taken over most of the space.

On the barn wall the pumpkin vines hang limply dead, looking like giant cobwebs...perfect for Halloween, I guess. But I need to get those pumpkins to a dry spot where they can cure, if I can find a dry spot on this soggy hilltop.

How can I bring this gardening season to a graceful end? My days and nights truncated by puppy needs, I feel as tired as my plants look. But soon the first killing frost—the weary gardener's friend—will end my fretting, and when spring comes around again Bisou will be grown, the baby goats will be gone to their new homes, and I will grow the best garden ever.

Sleepless Night

I was blessed with babies who slept through the night after four weeks of age, and who stayed healthy and slept soundly until they flew the nest and went to college.

This did not prepare me for having puppies. Bisou, for example, has been sleeping from 11 p.m. to 6:30 a.m. since she came to live with us, which is awfully good. But yesterday afternoon she got her second Parvo vaccine, and at bedtime she just couldn't settle down. Thinking she needed a bathroom break, I took her outside. The moon was full, the yard was bright. Bisou squatted, then came and sat by my feet. I carried her back to the bedroom, and put her in her crate.

No sooner had I dozed off than she started scrabbling at her bedding. Scarcely knowing where or who I was, I carried her in one arm and held on to the banister with the other, trying to keep from falling down the stairs and killing us both. But she wasn't interested in her grassy bathroom. I crawled back upstairs and retired to the guest room, reminding myself that it had never been my husband's idea to get a puppy, so he should be spared the trials that go along with it.

I lay down on top of the covers, and pulled an afghan over Bisou and myself. She groaned, turned around, groaned again, settled...of course by then I was wide awake. Pretty soon Bisou stirred, scrabbled, licked my face, and whined when I picked her up. Something in her abdomen was hurting her.

Another trip outside, another look at the calm and lovely moon. It was clear that Bisou wanted to sleep as much as I did, if she could just get comfortable. Not wanting to risk the stairs again in my befuddled state, I opted for the love-seat in the back porch. I'd have to sleep scrunched up, but at least I'd be right by the back door if Bisou needed to go out again.

She didn't. She settled into my arms and snoozed away, while I fretted about the abdominal sensitivity and the restlessness,and wondered how early I could call the vet, and reminded myself of how fragile a puppy is, and how awful it would be to wake up with her little body cold in my arms.

At six a.m. she woke up and I fixed her breakfast, which she inhaled. I got through goat and chicken and big-dog chores somehow, and Bisou seemed fine...except that she hopped up on the sofa and sat there calmly, looking around—a first in her short life. At that point all I could think about was sleep, so I climbed up next to her and pulled an afghan over our heads and we both passed out until noon.

She's been fine the rest of the day, no more tummy aches...just a little calmer and more mellow than usual. And I have loved this new, temporary Bisou, so eager to lie in my arms, so gentle with her jaws. I'm enjoying it while it lasts. Tomorrow, the red-haired menace will be with us again.

Lapdog-In-Training

In the evening, when the chickens are locked in for the night, the goats have been milked and fed, and the big dogs are stretched out on the rugs (no fire in the stove yet, but that's coming), Bisou gets her lapdog training session.

During the day, as I'm able to, I give her short lessons on leash-walking, on paying attention (make eye contact and you get a treat), on coming when called (do so and you get another treat). I teach her basic vocabulary: come, sit, inside, outside, do your business, leave it (my fingers, the lavender bush), take it (as I throw a ball), give (as she brings it back but hangs on to it), good girl! (whenever I catch her doing something not bad).

All this is a lot of work, and Bisou is doing as well as a twelve-week-old puppy can be expected to do. But in the evenings, during lapdog training, she really shines.

In fact, we're doing lapdog training right now—complicated by the fact that my lap isn't quite able to hold both a lapdog and a laptop. But Bisou, true to her ancient lineage, snuggles against my body, under the poncho that my mother crocheted for me in 1972, groans, then relaxes.

She is in her element. In days of yore, Cavaliers were known as “Comfort Spaniels,” or “Spaniels Gentle.” In the daytime, as Bisou charges around on her short legs, delivering death bites to the dried-out stalks of long-gone tiger lilies, she is my red-haired Maenad, my holy terror. But when the sun goes down she is all warmth and silky fur and big brown eyes, a spaniel gentle if I ever saw one.

Bisou In The Morning

The alarm rings at seven, and before I open my eyes the scrabbling inside the crate next to my bed tells me that Bisou is ready to greet the day. I take her in my arms, trying not to fall down the stairs, trying not to drop her as she wriggles, and let her out into the back yard, along with Wolfie and Lexi. I stand in my flipflops and pajamas in the low-forties dawn while Bisou gets up the nerve to wade into the (to her) shoulder-high, freezing-cold grass.

The minute she's done, I swoop her indoors, leaving the big dogs outside, and prepare her breakfast. The second she's done eating I swoop her outside and let the big dogs in. And now I have a dilemma: Wolfie and Lexi need breakfast, but I don't want Bisou inadvertently getting into trouble by nosing into one of their dishes. Plus, she has to relieve herself, again. I could leave her in the little exercise pen we have set up for her in the yard, but the grass is too cold, and she doesn't like to use the pen as a bathroom. I could put her in her crate in the house, but she's just spent ten hours in it, plus she is supercharged with energy from her meal.

My sleep-addled brain has trouble figuring all this out, but eventually I decide to take her on a walk down the driveway to give her some exercise and the opportunity to find a more comfortable spot to poop in. Down the driveway we go, me still in my pajamas, Bisou endangering her life by dashing around, way too close to my feet.

I can hear Wolfie and Lexi racing and crashing inside the house, skidding on the rugs and bunching them against the walls and furniture. I check Bisou for signs that she's winding down, but she's running like a bullet, tail high and ears streaming in the wind.

Eventually we go back inside, I pop her in the crate, and fix the big dogs' breakfast. While they're eating, I fill the water bucket to take out to the goats. This reminds me that I haven't been to the bathroom yet myself, but never mind, there's no time for that now. For all I know, I've slept through Blossom's labor despite the baby monitor by my pillow, and there's an obstetrical hecatomb awaiting me in the barn.

I rush to the barn with the bucket and the milking pail. The goats are lying down, drowsily chewing their cud. Relieved, I grab some laying mash and go to feed the chickens and let them out to pasture. The goats, fully awake now, start calling for me. Back in the barn I fill the grain dishes and the hay feeder, milk Virginia Slim, fill the water bucket, and assure Blossom that I will be checking on her throughout the day.

Back in the house, I'm straining the milk when Bisou tells me that she needs to go outside NOW. I take her out, but the grass is cold, etc. She pulls a water plant out of my little garden tub. I replace the plant, replace Bisou in the crate, put the milk in the fridge. Suddenly the universe smiles upon me: Bisou falls asleep. I go to the bathroom. I eat breakfast. While I eat, Wolfie brings me a toy to throw. I tell him we mustn't wake Bisou. He gives me a look that drowns me in guilt.

Now it's time to give Lexi her aspirin and her joint medication, and to brush everybody's teeth. By the time Lexi's and Wolfie's teeth are done, Bisou pipes up, so I brush hers too (without toothpaste, and just for practice). Bisou waddles over to the water bowl and has a big drink. I take her outside again.

We come back in and I take her into the guest room with a tiny ball she loves, for a retrieving session. I throw the tiny ball many, many times. She brings it back faithfully, but has difficulty with the concept of letting go . After a while she decides to forget about the ball and just try to sever my fingers from my hands. Play session is over. I take her outside, then put her in the crate.

Now the big dogs need some quality time. So I let Lexi wander in the big field in search of deer droppings while I do some heeling work with Wolfie and then throw balls for him. I'm still in my pajamas, but have managed to put on a jacket.

I let the big dogs in the house, begging them not to make noise. Bisou is still asleep. Yesss! I go upstairs and brush my teeth.

Puppy FAQs

How do you say “Bisou,” and what does it mean?
It's pronounced “Bee-zoo,“ and it means “kiss” in colloquial French.

How old is she, and when did you get her?
She was ten weeks old yesterday, and we got her at nine weeks old.

What breed is she?
If you haven't been following the course of my obsessions: she's a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel—big name, little dog.

How big is she now, and how big will she get?
She's just over six pounds now. I've seen Cavaliers that weigh as little as eleven pounds. I hear that some big males can reach twenty pounds. I'm hoping she stays on the small side, though when I took her to visit her siblings a couple of days ago, she towered over all of them.

What does she look like?
She looks like a miniature Irish Setter/Cocker Spaniel blend—you know, big eyes, blocky muzzle, long, curly ears, reddish-golden coat.

What is her personality like?
A combination of St. Theresa, the Little Flower; and Kali, the Indian goddess of Chaos and Destruction.

Does she sleep through the night?
Yes! From the beginning! And, through the tireless efforts of her amazingly conscientious breeder, she arrived practically house-trained.

Does she travel well?
No sooner had she learned to relieve herself on our grass than we whisked her off to Philadelphia. There she had to figure out the uses of a flower bed in a narrow row-house yard. The minute she got used to that we whisked her back to cold , wet Vermont grass. It's a wonder she hasn't come down with a huge case of constipation, but so far she hasn't.

How do Wolfie and Lexi react to her?
Lexi pretty much ignores her. Wolfie adores her, and she reciprocates. Their Tristan and Isolde relationship will provide fodder for many future posts.

Is there anything else going on that we should know about?
Yes. Our Nigerian Dwarf doe Blossom is great with child, and will be kidding any day now. We have installed the baby monitor in the barn, and it keeps us awake all night with the sounds of hay munching and cud-chewing. Do goats ever sleep?

Why I Haven't Been Posting Recently

(But I will again soon.)