It’s simply amazing how my quiet life has changed.
Now, with Bryn’s coming, clocks and watches are consulted constantly. My 23-pound labradoodle pup occasionally relieves herself in the dining room, or kitchen, because, until recently, I’d failed to recognize her signal to go outside, conveyed through gentle nose bumps every couple of hours or so. Finally, though, she’s been getting through to her dim-witted owner.
Bryn’s occasional mistakes are almost always my fault.
An enormous, warm-weather potted fern, a Cordyline Australis, and two red-flowered mandevillas were moved inside last fall, something I don’t normally do. But I just couldn’t bear to see these beauties perish in winter. It would be awful to lose them now to puppy-antics, after nursing them along for almost eight months. The four huge plants gaze out the big kitchen window, waiting impatiently for mid-June, when I’ll replant them. They certainly know what time it is. Vivid blooms are already out on the mandevillas.
Bryn, though, has discovered the joy of leaf-stripping. She’ll reach for a four-foot-long, gracefully drooping fern frond, trace its length back to the root, then run her clenched baby teeth carefully along the stem right to its tip. A hundred or so tiny leaves disconnect and fall, leaving me staring at a naked stick and a neat pile of greenery on the wooden floor. Usually a few pathetic shreds hang out of the pup’s mouth, exposing her sin. Funnily enough, she does look furtively around before indulging herself, a ‘tell’ that she knows this behavior is not allowed. In the next instant, though, she’ll forget: leaf-stripping is addictive, and so much fun!
I must check for toys and antler bones as I travel through the house, or else. One midnight I stumbled, half asleep, toward the bathroom, and trod on her cloth skunk in exactly the right place. It shrieked: I nearly had a heart attack! Lesson: clear all toys from traffic areas before falling into bed.
Yesterday she shook and whirled her overweight blue mega-worm with such force that it smacked me soundly in the head as I sat on the floor. The squeaker inside it squawked on contact; I cried out in pain and surprise, and Bryn jumped back, bewildered. I rubbed my bump, but had to chuckle. How ridiculous to be thoroughly whacked by a fabric worm!
We two are a pair!
Carol Finch and her family, who specialize in breeding labradoodles, own and manage Acme Creek Kennels just outside Traverse City. They’ve done a marvelous job of socializing Bryn. She’s house-trained (IF I can be trained to listen and respond), and eager to learn.
Some important things, though, can’t be taught.
At just sixteen weeks of age, Bryn has demonstrated compassion and consideration. Here’s what happened.
We popped over to the dog park in Bay City the other day so she could dash around leash-less, and drain off some puppy energy.
But this visit was different.
We entered the ‘Small Dog Area’ to find a large golden Labrador retriever standing very close to his owner in the center of the lawn. They should have been in the ‘Large Dog’ park next door. Bryn I immediately saw why that hadn’t happened: the lab was missing a front leg. The owner, Ken, worried that big dogs might bowl over his unsteady, depressed canine, Cappy.
Instead of rocketing around with her usual boisterous enthusiasm, our pup walked quietly up to the older, much larger dog, stretched high to lick his nose, and introduced herself by presenting her backside for him to sniff. Bryn inspected his healed injury for just a few seconds, then moved off slowly, tossing him a ‘wanna play?’ look. The lab, responding to his owner’s urging, carefully followed Bryn at a very slow hop-walk.
Nobody breathed. So far, Cappy hadn’t tripped, lost his balance, or fallen. Nervously he tried a trot. Still, no problem! After two times around the area with Bryn, who stayed just a bit ahead, tantalizing him, Cappy threw caution to the wind, gave a happy woof and moved faster- and faster… until suddenly, he was running flat out! We cheered as both dogs dashed around, with quick-footed Byn laboring at times to keep up! Ken was relieved and delighted!
He told me Cappy’d been hit by a car and nearly killed just a month ago: his crushed leg could not be saved. When he was finally released from the hospital the dog was reluctant to move around much. The wound had healed, though, so Ken decided to take a chance and reintroduce the shocked, shaken Cappy to his favorite dog park. Both were apprehensive: this was uncharted territory.
But now we’d witnessed the lab’s life snap back into normal mode. Cappy joyfully realized he could run really fast and stop quickly. (Back legs are more important for running, and he had two of those, by golly!)
Bryn had us shown another side of her personality- sensitivity, and an innate awareness that this wounded soul should be approached differently.
Now, both panting dogs flopped to the ground, spent, and content. We flooded them with pats and congrats.
Ken and I were absolutely certain, though, that Cappy grinned.
Now, with Bryn’s coming, clocks and watches are consulted constantly. My 23-pound labradoodle pup occasionally relieves herself in the dining room, or kitchen, because, until recently, I’d failed to recognize her signal to go outside, conveyed through gentle nose bumps every couple of hours or so. Finally, though, she’s been getting through to her dim-witted owner.
Bryn’s occasional mistakes are almost always my fault.
An enormous, warm-weather potted fern, a Cordyline Australis, and two red-flowered mandevillas were moved inside last fall, something I don’t normally do. But I just couldn’t bear to see these beauties perish in winter. It would be awful to lose them now to puppy-antics, after nursing them along for almost eight months. The four huge plants gaze out the big kitchen window, waiting impatiently for mid-June, when I’ll replant them. They certainly know what time it is. Vivid blooms are already out on the mandevillas.
Bryn, though, has discovered the joy of leaf-stripping. She’ll reach for a four-foot-long, gracefully drooping fern frond, trace its length back to the root, then run her clenched baby teeth carefully along the stem right to its tip. A hundred or so tiny leaves disconnect and fall, leaving me staring at a naked stick and a neat pile of greenery on the wooden floor. Usually a few pathetic shreds hang out of the pup’s mouth, exposing her sin. Funnily enough, she does look furtively around before indulging herself, a ‘tell’ that she knows this behavior is not allowed. In the next instant, though, she’ll forget: leaf-stripping is addictive, and so much fun!
I must check for toys and antler bones as I travel through the house, or else. One midnight I stumbled, half asleep, toward the bathroom, and trod on her cloth skunk in exactly the right place. It shrieked: I nearly had a heart attack! Lesson: clear all toys from traffic areas before falling into bed.
Yesterday she shook and whirled her overweight blue mega-worm with such force that it smacked me soundly in the head as I sat on the floor. The squeaker inside it squawked on contact; I cried out in pain and surprise, and Bryn jumped back, bewildered. I rubbed my bump, but had to chuckle. How ridiculous to be thoroughly whacked by a fabric worm!
We two are a pair!
Carol Finch and her family, who specialize in breeding labradoodles, own and manage Acme Creek Kennels just outside Traverse City. They’ve done a marvelous job of socializing Bryn. She’s house-trained (IF I can be trained to listen and respond), and eager to learn.
Some important things, though, can’t be taught.
At just sixteen weeks of age, Bryn has demonstrated compassion and consideration. Here’s what happened.
We popped over to the dog park in Bay City the other day so she could dash around leash-less, and drain off some puppy energy.
But this visit was different.
We entered the ‘Small Dog Area’ to find a large golden Labrador retriever standing very close to his owner in the center of the lawn. They should have been in the ‘Large Dog’ park next door. Bryn I immediately saw why that hadn’t happened: the lab was missing a front leg. The owner, Ken, worried that big dogs might bowl over his unsteady, depressed canine, Cappy.
Instead of rocketing around with her usual boisterous enthusiasm, our pup walked quietly up to the older, much larger dog, stretched high to lick his nose, and introduced herself by presenting her backside for him to sniff. Bryn inspected his healed injury for just a few seconds, then moved off slowly, tossing him a ‘wanna play?’ look. The lab, responding to his owner’s urging, carefully followed Bryn at a very slow hop-walk.
Nobody breathed. So far, Cappy hadn’t tripped, lost his balance, or fallen. Nervously he tried a trot. Still, no problem! After two times around the area with Bryn, who stayed just a bit ahead, tantalizing him, Cappy threw caution to the wind, gave a happy woof and moved faster- and faster… until suddenly, he was running flat out! We cheered as both dogs dashed around, with quick-footed Byn laboring at times to keep up! Ken was relieved and delighted!
He told me Cappy’d been hit by a car and nearly killed just a month ago: his crushed leg could not be saved. When he was finally released from the hospital the dog was reluctant to move around much. The wound had healed, though, so Ken decided to take a chance and reintroduce the shocked, shaken Cappy to his favorite dog park. Both were apprehensive: this was uncharted territory.
But now we’d witnessed the lab’s life snap back into normal mode. Cappy joyfully realized he could run really fast and stop quickly. (Back legs are more important for running, and he had two of those, by golly!)
Bryn had us shown another side of her personality- sensitivity, and an innate awareness that this wounded soul should be approached differently.
Now, both panting dogs flopped to the ground, spent, and content. We flooded them with pats and congrats.
Ken and I were absolutely certain, though, that Cappy grinned.