Guest Blogger: Amber Green

We have a new dog, Baron.  He’s at the stage where everyone has a different name for him, from Baron von Hund (I know, cringe-worthy) to Mr. Paws.  I call him the Big Brown Puppy of Happiness.

Sixteen years ago this summer, when my children were quite small, we were given two kittens.  When we went to pick up the second, the woman said, “Here, now! You want a puppy?  These is five weeks old and their momma left them a week ago and today they’re every one going to the pound!”  Well, three went home with me.  I gave away two at Legal Services and kept one, Jake.  He would bring his leash when he wanted to go with us somewhere, or his ball when he wanted to play.  He was a perfect squirrel dog, an unhelpful but enthusiastic fishing companion, a fought-over footwarmer in a cold tent at night.  The mailman called him The Dog Who Smiles.  As the boys grew up and went their own ways, my husband retired and Jake became his shadow.  Jake died a year ago January after a protracted illness.

Four months later, we lost our beautiful big dog.  Shiloh had come to us as an underweight 120-pound adult, a pedigreed white Alsatian but much too tall for breed standard.  His family had moved here from South Carolina and left him in the charge of a hotel manager (my neighbor) to go househunting.  They’d come back to the hotel saying they’d signed a lease on a townhouse only to find no pets were allowed, so where was the animal shelter?  The following hour involved a shotgun, lots of yelling, and a purely defensive bite.  Then Shiloh made his place at my right hand; he would lie beside me on the floor as I wrote and lay his head on my knee when he thought I needed a big sweet doggie to pet.  His big trick was turning the bathroom door knob.  I would go sit there because I needed a big doggie’s head on my knee, right?  I learned to let him in before I shut the door, because I really am fond of closed bathroom doors.  He died suddenly, at what was an advanced age for such a big dog.  But it was too soon after losing Jake.  Way too soon.

This left us with one dog in the house.  She is not the stuff of fond memories.  Losing her playmate, Shiloh, did not improve her disposition.

Most of a year went by.  We talked at length about what we each wanted in a new puppy or dog.  We agreed that it would be best not to bring in a lively new puppy yet because our eldest two cats are sixteen years old.  But I needed a puppy.  My husband, who has never regained the weight he lost after Jake died, needed a new puppy.  On our third trip to the pound, my husband said, “Look at this one.”

Are you nuts? You’re the one who didn’t want any trace of pit bull, and that there is a red-nosed pit bull.  No, he’s not.  He’s got a lot of chocolate lab in him. Says who?  Ridgeback mix, someone else suggested.  Maybe some mastiff in there.  We played with him and watched him nap over the next couple of hours, checking his disposition and trying to gauge his intelligence.  Friends dropped by and reminisced about Jake and Shiloh.  Other people we haven’t seen in years happened to show up and offer opinions.  My son raced to the pound to talk us out of getting a puppy, but sat on the floor and went all chibi once he arrived.  A friend quietly got the paperwork together during this time, so we had little to do other than sign and shell out the bucks. My husband signed as the adopter, since he got the senior citizen’s discount.  I signed as the landlady, since my name is on the tax appraiser’s roll.

One of the adoption consultants tried to talk us into crate-training, but I don’t see the point.  We have a Shiloh-sized doggie door, a fenced yard, and the kind of household where someone is virtually always around.  The first night, my husband set up a mat beside the bed so he could drop a hand to touch the puppy whenever the puppy got anxious or lonesome.  In the morning, I found Mr. No Dogs On The Bed curled up around a cinnamon-caramel puppy.

During his first day here, my husband would put him through the doggie door every two hours and every time he ate.  During the first night, he was carried out every time he whimpered.  On the second night, he didn’t whimper.  That morning, we found a a pile and a puddle right by the door. I could just hear this little voice saying, “I big boy! I do it myself! Awwwww!”  He got the hang of opening the door flap by himself that day, though.

He’s only just now grown big enough not to trip over the teddy bear he carries around.  When he dances into a room, with or without his bear, grins break out all around.  I think we have the makings of a great dog here.

Amber Green lives in Florida with a mixed household of family, friends, and critters.  Some household members fall into more than one category.  Visit her website at www.shapeshiftersinlust.com for cover art, excerpts, blurbs, reviews, and the occasional nauseatingly self-promoting bit of “news.”