Pups Grow Up

I absolutely, positively did not want a puppy. In November 2016, when Brody died and we’d already lost Darwin to cancer in June, I desperately needed a dog. I hadn’t been dogless in my life. I’m not cut out to not have a dog. But I didn’t want a puppy. I’m too old to be dealing with puppy shenanigans.

Then I found Mozzie, and two months later, Oliver.

Yesterday, Mozzie turned 19 months old, and Oliver turned 17 months.

Here they were a year ago, at 7 and 5 months.

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Mozzie, top; Oliver, bottom

Now they’re so grown up. They might grow a little more, and fill out, but Mozzie was 62 pounds at his vet check last month, and Oliver was 57, and I don’t think either of them will gain much more than maybe five pounds. Just look at these faces!

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Oliver, left; Mozzie, right

They wake me up early, follow me everywhere, observe my every move, destroy the yard, bark and tear for the front window at every sound, terrorize squirrels, drag their toys all over the house, and generally behave like hyperactive heathens.

But they play and run and snuggle and make me laugh and keep me company. I didn’t want a puppy–much less two–but it turns out they were exactly what I needed.

Don’t Call Me Scarecrow

The people who surrendered Oliver to the humane society a year ago called him Scarecrow because they claimed he was afraid of everything.

He was 3 1/2 months old and in his third home, after the people who were supposed to buy him failed to pick him up from his breeder. The breeder gave him to a friend, whose resident dog didn’t like him, so he was passed on to a relative. That person also declined to keep him and contacted Colonial Capital Humane Society to find him a home.

Which turned out to be with us.

There are a couple of things wrong with calling him Scarecrow, the first being it was derogatory, implying it was his fault he was frightened.

Second, scarecrows aren’t afraid of things; they scare things away.

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Let me tell you, after the first fifteen minutes trembling on our kitchen floor the evening we brought him home, Oliver hasn’t been afraid of a single thing for one second.

Mozzie, our golden, is the timid one, like the Cowardly Lion. That, along with his perpetual puppy energy, was why we wanted him to have a canine companion, so Oliver joined us when Mozzie was six months old.

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Is that scary plastic bag gone?

Not only was the Scarecrow not the ‘fraidy-cat in The Wizard of Oz, he turned out to be the brains of the bunch, and that’s how it’s been with Oliver. He is a standard poodle, which rank second only to border collies on the breed intelligence charts, and one step above golden retrievers.

Seriously, with both a poodle and a golden, I’m outmatched in the intelligence department. If they ever decide to stage a coup, I’m in deep trouble.

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Meet your future Canine Overlords

Goldens are brilliant and can cheerfully learn to do anything you care to teach them. So can poodles, but they’re going to think it over for a while first, deciding if they agree with your strategy and technique, before complying. And if they’ve devised a better way, be prepared, because that’s what they’ll do.

When you talk to a golden, you can see the bright spark of understanding in their eyes, along with plenty of joyful adoration. When you talk to a standard poodle, you see that understanding and intelligence, but you can also see intense concentration, as he analyzes your words, inflection, body language, and intention. Poodles are always watching and evaluating, weighing and measuring, processing everything they see.

Poodles are always watching.

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One thing I can tell you with absolute certainty–Oliver isn’t afraid of a single thing.

And he’s with us now, so he’ll never have to be.

Congratulations, It’s A Poodle!

Surprise poodles are the best poodles.

One year ago today, I woke up as the mom of one six-month-old golden retriever puppy. The plan was already in progress to find him a nice young adult golden or Labrador retriever brother.

Within eight hours, previous plans were tossed right out the window and we welcomed an almost four-month-old standard poodle puppy into the family.

Colonial Capital Humane Society posted this photo and a description, stating he required immediate rescue.

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I texted Tom to ask how we felt about standard poodles. I knew I loved them, but figured I should at least have the courtesy to ask before informing him we now had one. He responded positively, and the wheels were in motion.

The fabulous Lisa Lee of CCHS left work to go take possession of the puppy. She even stopped by Tom’s store and told him she was there with his “son.” Now, Tom had never met Lisa before, and our son and his wife were currently on a plane back to Minnesota from a cruise vacation, so he was a bit perplexed. It was sheer brilliance on Lisa’s part, though, because if any part of Tom was having second thoughts about adopting the poodle-puppy, the point was now moot. He was immediately a poodle-dad.

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We met Lisa after Tom got off work, and this is when I met the puppy we would name Oliver

The poor pup had had a very traumatic few days, and was a bit overwhelmed. Within a day, though, he and Mozzie were playing and bonding, and adopting Oliver was probably the best pack-building decision we’ve ever made.

 

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Oliver will be 16 months old next week, and Mozzie will be 18 months on the same day. We’re looking forward to many years of fun and frolic with our two boys.

Happy gotcha day, Oliver! We love you!

 

Classic: Innocent or a Diabolical Plot?

In November of 2007, we welcomed a three-year-old golden retriever into our pack. He was under 60 pounds, emaciated and neglected, saved from that life by golden rescue. We named him Darwin.

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Despite his trauma, he was the sunniest, bounciest, happiest, cutest golden retriever I’d ever seen. He was also extremely ornery. This Classic Fermented Fur post describes when I pondered that he might actually have an evil agenda.

Though I describe him as “barely sixty pounds” in the post, which first appeared exactly ten years ago today, he was still recovering. He eventually chunked out at around 85 pounds, which was a little too much, despite his enthusiastic fence-running, but he was healthy and happy, and we sure did adore him.

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Darwin didn’t know how to not be enthusiastic about every single thing.


Darwin doesn’t play fair. He is some kind of canine nuclear reactor with the ability to take a finite number of cute doggie molecules and fuse them in an out of control chain reaction, creating an infinite Cuteness Output.

He’s a smallish golden retriever, but he has about a million dogs’ worth of adorable packed into his barely sixty pounds.

Unfortunately, there seems to be a direct correlation between Darwin’s Cuteness Output and the Orneriness Quotient. If I could find a way to break the link between those, he’d be the perfect dog. I imagine it’s some sort of evolutionary defense mechanism. In fact, the more I think about it, the cuteness is probably multiplying in proportion to his orneriness because it’s much more difficult to bash a really, really adorable dog in the head with a boot. Clever, Darwin, very clever.

It’s impossible to throw him off the bed when he gets all curled up just where I need to be and looks at me and flutters his tail. When he has his head on the pillow, too, I can’t even muster up a good glare.

It’s impossible to refuse to pet him when he’s draped over the back of the love seat, toy in his mouth and tail wagging.

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Try to resist this. I dare you. It cannot be done.

I can’t yell at him when he slurps up all the coffee in the cup I left on the end table, because it makes him so happy, and he seems to make a real effort not to make a huge mess. Clearly, I am the untrained one, if I’m still leaving coffee on the end table in the first place. And this is a dog that does not need caffeine.

It’s impossible to ignore him when he finally comes back in after an extended fence-barking episode, because he looks at me with that huge golden grin on his frosty, bark-breath encrusted face (Seriously! Whisker-cicles!), seeming to say, “Wow, I just had the best time, but now I’m overflowing with indescribable joy merely to be in your presence.”

There’s no way I can shove him down to the foot of the bed so I can reclaim some small scrap of my own blanket because he then rolls over on his back and I am compelled to scratch his chin and chest and hold his enormous paw for a while.

When he first began getting clear up in the bay window, my instinctive reaction was to make him get down. Dogs don’t belong in the window, right? But he looked so cute standing up there. Plus, his tail thumping on the screen greets me as I make my way from the garage to the house after work.

Then he started sacking out on the windowsill, watching the world go by, and that was even more adorable. It is now Darwin’s window. I’ve given up my claim. I’m thinking of padding the windowsill so he can be even more comfy. One additional benefit is that Brody gets up there less (though he mostly confined his window-time to only his front two paws), because when he got excited over something outside, he tended to claw the screens to shreds.

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After coming across the Obey the Purebreed website, I’m developing a new theory. Dogs use cuteness as the ultimate weapon. If they amass enough “cute,” they gain the ability to get away with anything they want, moving them further along in their diabolical plan for world domination.

I’m not sure, but I think Darwin may soon become their leader.

I just hope the chain reaction which generates all that dog-appeal is not truly nuclear. Because if it is, I am so doomed. He does have that golden glow, but so far I have no reason to believe he is radioactive.

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Rescues and Purebreds and Breeders…Oh, My!

I love dogs–all dogs. From the tiniest, yappiest, nippiest fluff-nuggets to the behemoths who weigh well into triple digits, poop like Clydesdales, and need their own couch. Or your couch. You can sit on the floor, puny human.

Tom and I got our first dog, a buff cocker spaniel we named Porsche, in 1988. She was followed in 1989 by Flash, a buff and white cocker, and Cricket, a black cocker, in 1991. Mozzie and Oliver are dogs number 13 and 14, respectively. Of those 14 dogs, twelve were purebred.

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Wait…what? How can I support rescue and still have purebred dogs, you ask?

I can, and I do, and I don’t have to justify myself to anyone about it. But I will explain.

All those years ago, I’d never heard of a puppy mill. Those cocker spaniels all came from Petland stores in the Indianapolis area. Hey, they had “papers!” The Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval of the dog world, right? Nope. That’s a big ol’ nopeasaurus. My poor cockerpack was a grab-bag of genetic issues, and thus my education began.

In 1994, I got my first golden retriever and the canine love of my life, Ripley. From a backyard breeder. I’d learned not to buy from pet stores, but hadn’t quite figured things out completely. Ripley had bilateral hip surgery at six months old, because his dysplasia was so bad he could already barely walk. Lesson learned.

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My poor puppy! But we had 12 wonderful, active, happy years after this.

From then on, dogs #5-12 (and #14) were all rescues, through  rescue groups and one private adoption. At times, we had as many as seven dogs, which sounds slightly less clinically insane when you remember I worked in veterinary clinics, was on the board of the regional golden retriever rescue group, was active in the county kennel club and Pyr rescue, and founded a chapter of Therapy Dogs International. Honestly, it’s a miracle I didn’t have twenty-seven, so you should really be congratulating me on my superhuman restraint.

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Sprocket, our first RAGOM rescue boy

But all but two of those dogs were still purebred.  Undocumented, unregistered, but they were all golden retrievers, one Great Pyrenees, and now one standard poodle, with two exceptions.

As I said, I love all dogs, from their boopable snoots to their long-waggy or stubby-wiggly tails and the bottoms of their so-cute paws. I’m aware anyone can walk into any shelter in any community and walk out with a wonderful canine companion the same day. I get it, and I encourage people to do so. But you also have to do some homework so you  have some idea what you’re getting. For example, if you live in a community where you can’t have a fence, and houses are close together, you should probably stay away from scent hounds, because they will follow their noses into the next county and sing the song of their people at ear-shattering volume whenever the spirit moves them.

The thing is, with mixes, you don’t always know what you’re getting, and there’s no reliable way to tell. I have very specific things I need in a dog for him to fit into my life and my pack with minimal conflict for all involved, and I have a much better chance of achieving this if I select breeds whose primary temperament and behaviors match these criteria. I’m sometimes criticized for this, but believe me, purebred dogs need rescue too.

You can’t look at the puppy in the shelter and be sure what he’s made of. He could be a mix of any number of breeds, and you can’t know–unless you have a crystal ball, and if you do, can I please borrow it?–which traits of any of those breeds will manifest. He might look 90% like one of his primary breeds, but his temperament might be 90% like another part of his genetic makeup, and they might be wildly different from what you’d expect.

Let’s look at my two mix-boys as examples.

One day, Tom called me and said, “You’ll never guess what I’m looking at.” Well, no, given that vague non-question, I couldn’t. Turned out the answer was “a golden retriever/Great Pyrenees mix.” Who, coincidentally, needed a new home. And that’s when we adopted Gulliver.

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Now, the mistake people might make is thinking a golden/Pyr mix is essentially a gorgeous, extra-fluffy golden retriever. No doubt about it, Gulliver was breathtaking. Just look at this face.

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But Gulliver’s personality was 100% Pyr. He was sweet and loving, but reserved. We thought he needed a Pyrish friend, and soon Ozark joined the family.

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Ozark was a Lab/Pyr mix, and his temperament was 75% retriever and 25% Pyr, while he looked like an extra-fluffy Lab or golden.

If you take retrievers (Lab or golden) and Pyrs, you have four possible options, in varying degrees.

  • Looks like Pyr, acts like retriever
  • Looks like Pyr, acts like Pyr
  • Looks like retriever, acts like Pyr
  • Looks like retriever, acts like retriever

Gully looked like a Pyr-shaped golden and acted like a Pyr. He guarded and patrolled the yard and barked at perceived threats, real or imagined. He could lie in the snow for hours, but wouldn’t dampen one puppy-tootsie in our pool. If you threw a ball, he looked at you like “what the hell is wrong with you, throwing that thing when I’m busy monitoring the perimeter?”

Ozark had a very Lab-like appearance, though fluffier, and his outgoing, interactive personality was retriever through and through. He loved all people, like a Lab. He also adored puppies and kitties, which he would take care of, play with gently, and guard, like a Pyr. Unlike a Lab, he did not fetch and would sooner die than get in the pool.

At least Pyrs and retrievers aren’t terribly incompatible when you smush all that DNA into one dog. Gully and Ozark were fabulous dogs, and fit in well with our pack.

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Nope, I did’t have a problem! Seven dogs. On the couch are Seko, Sprocket, Flash, Me, Cricket (she’s black, look for the tongue) and Ripley. On the floor are Gulliver and Ozark. I think this was January 2002.

I worry about less-compatible mixes. In golden rescue, for example, we saw a lot of golden/chow mixes, and it’s hard to imagine two breeds with more different temperaments and personalities. (Side note…why do we refer to dogs as having a “personality?” Does that imply they’re persons? If it does, we should apologize and find a new word immediately, because most people suck, while dogs are made of awesome. Doggonality? Puppernality? I’m open to suggestions.)

If you get that cute little golden-chow mix puppy, who looks like a super-plushy golden, thinking this will be your new “play fetch at the beach” buddy, you might both be very frustrated and disappointed if he ends up having the chow personality. (Puppernatility? I’m still working on this part…) He will not fetch that Frisbee, and if you try to make him go in the water, he will explain to you–possibly with his teeth–why that is not happening.

If he looks like a chow but has the golden “I love all humans, and I know they all love me, so I must bound up to them to facilitate the exchange of our mutual love” outlook on life, you might have a lot of people whose lives flash before their eyes when they think they’re about to be attacked by a breed of dog that typically doesn’t come running at you unless he means business and has decided he does not like you.

It’s all really confusing for everyone involved.

That’s why I tend to stick with breeds I know. I understand how Pyrs and goldens work, and now I also know how standard poodles work. (Hint: They Are Always Watching. He will let you know what he thinks of things later, as soon as he develops a foolproof strategy. Don’t argue. He’s probably right.)

Mozzie (#13) came from a breeder, and Oliver (#14) is a true urgent-case rescue through a humane society, though both are purebred. I have Mozzie’s limited AKC registration, met his parents and two of his littermates, and I am comfortable with the environment in which he was bred and raised. I know who Oliver’s parents are, though I never bothered to track down his papers because a) he’d been through several homes prior to our finding him, and b) papers don’t mean anything unless you want to compete in AKC events such as conformation or obedience, or breed them, and those things are not happening.

Oliver’s parents, Earnest and Lady Girl

When we got Mozzie, I actually got some thin-lipped, silent disapproval because he wasn’t a rescue. Know what? I’ve spent the last 20+ years as a dedicated rescue volunteer and supporter, and if I find myself dogless for the first time in 30 years and come across a puppy and decide he’s what I need, I can certainly buy a damned puppy, regardless of what anyone thinks. Do I need to say that again, louder, for those in the back? No? Good.

There’s no one “right” way to find your perfect dog. He might be waiting in a shelter or a rescue group, or there might be a breeder with a dog who is meant to be yours. The only caveat is I’ll never consider buying from a pet store, or from what I call greed-breeders. They churn out puppies as fast as the poor mama-dog’s uterus will allow, or they produce some trendy designer mixed breed and try to convince you it’s so special you should pay $1000-$2500 or more for the privilege of owning one…and in some cases both. Yeah, stay away from those assholes.

Other than that, do your own thing. Go to a shelter. Apply through an all-breed or breed-specific rescue group. Find a breeder whose head isn’t packed full of straw and illusions of fat bags with dollar signs on them. Know what you want, know what you need, know what you can handle, know what characteristics you can expect from the breed(s) involved, and find your new canine friend.

All that matters is love, and dogs are overflowing with the stuff and more than happy to share.

Let’s Meet Mozziver

I view people without dogs with either pity or suspicion, depending on whether their doglessness is because they love dogs but due to circumstances beyond their control can’t have any, or because they simply don’t like dogs. The former is tolerable because it can someday be remedied. The latter…does not compute, and I don’t think I know how to even have a conversation with those people

The week between when our beloved Great Pyrenees, Brody, died in November 2016 and when we found Mozzie and brought him home was the only time I’ve been dogless in my adult life. It was surreal beyond description, and I hope I never experience such emptiness again.

Since Mozzie and Oliver will be the stars of this show, as well as the brains of the operation, I thought we should talk about how they came to be here. As of right now, Mozzie–a golden retriever–is 17.5 months old, and Oliver–a standard poodle–is 15.5 months old.

To set the stage, in 2016 we had two dogs. Darwin was an 11-12 year old golden retriever, and Brody was an 11 year old Great Pyrenees. They were dogs number 11 and 12 in our lifelong pack. Darwin was our sixth golden (the fifth adopted through RAGOM in Minnesota), and Brody was our first Pyr, though we’d had two Pyr mixes in the past.

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Darwin and Brody

2016 turned out to be a catastrophically shitty year. Darwin was diagnosed with cancer in June, and lived only six more days. Despite being rescued at age 3 in a horribly neglected and emaciated condition, he was the happiest, bounciest, sunniest, orneriest dog in the history of ever, and losing him was crushing.

Brody had been declining for a long time, with more and more trouble with his back legs, and the day before Thanksgiving, we knew it was time. He could no longer stand or walk on his own, and at 100 pounds, we were limited in our ability to help him.

Suck X 1 million.

A few years earlier, I’d consulted the crystal ball and thought this might happen one day, and we tried to adopt a third dog, but Brody and Darwin vetoed this notion very adamantly. So I knew there would be a time I had zero dogs, though my canine-obsessed mind had trouble comprehending this.

Then it happened, my brain imploded, and things went a little crazy. The local golden rescue wasn’t getting in any young adult males (I’d applied and was stalking their page on an almost hourly basis), and neither was lab rescue. I’d toyed with the idea of a smaller breed dog, maybe a corgi or small lab mix or a Nova Scotia Duck Tolling Retriever, but not having had a golden since Darwin died, it soon became evident I needed a golden in my life.

Then I saw an ad. A family had three puppies left over from a litter. They’d been supposed to go to new homes in October, but the area experienced severe flooding around then, and some puppy families backed out due to dealing with their own flood situations or being unable to reach the puppies. They were 3.5 months old, past the usual adoption age…and I had to see them.

Long story short, I found Mozzie. I had not wanted a puppy. I swore up and down, loudly, that I did not want a puppy.

Turned out I did.

Whatsit

Once Mozzie (our 13th dog and 7th golden) had been with us a month or so, I knew the only thing that could keep up with a puppy was another puppy. It damned sure wasn’t a 50-something-year-old woman who spends most of her waking hours on the couch with her laptop.

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Don’t let the cute fool you. He was a 900-mile-an-hour puppy whirlwind two seconds later.

And the search began. Golden rescue again, lab rescue, hoping to find Mozzie a kind, confident big brother.

Once again, the universe laughed at me. I think it might have peed itself a little.

The morning of February 13, 2017, I awoke and began checking out rescue listings, as usual. There had to be a nice, calm big brother out there for our Mozzie. Then I saw a post from Colonial Capital Humane Society. They’d been asked to assist in re-homing an almost 4-month-old standard poodle puppy. He was already in his third or fourth home, and the people who had him wanted him gone.

I applied. I messaged. I was immediately approved, because seriously, who is a better qualified puppy-mom than me? Nobody, that’s who.

Oh, I did check with Tom first. We hadn’t discussed standard poodles only because we never imagined we’d find one in this area. Finding anything that isn’t a pit bull or some sort of hound is already hard enough. All my years in vet clinics, I’d known poodles. Also, a dear friend had one, and she also had a golden when she got him, and it was a great match. Tom’s uncle had a black male standard. We were sold.

But I wanted a day or two to prepare. I’d need another crate, had to get my brain prepared for a second puppy, when I had sworn I didn’t even want one puppy. Shows how much I know.

The hitch was if we wanted him, we had to take him immediately. The people who had him had informed CCHS that they were out of puppy food and weren’t buying any more. They had also posted online and were planning to hand this puppy, who they called Scarecrow because he was afraid of everything, to the first person who knocked on their door.

Thank doG, the CCHS volunteer we were working with was having none of that. She left work and charged over to the house, literally taking this puppy out of the hands of some random person who was more than likely planning on using him to make “doodles” that could be sold at a tidy profit.

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So, dog #14 turned out to be standard poodle #1. We named him Oliver, and let me tell you, that dog is not afraid of anything, even a little bit, unless it’s not being the center of attention. He and Mozzie became bestest buds, and I’ve never had a more bonded pair  of brothers, ever.

The only drawback is I’m outnumbered and outsmarted. Goldens are incredibly smart, learn anything quickly, and are eager to please. Poodles are strategists, their intelligence is off the charts, and they never miss anything. The two of them together could found a mid-size nation or destroy civilization, depending on their mood.

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Since I work at home, and leave the house only under duress or promises of dirty martinis, I’m with these two 24/7. They’re my entertainment, my sounding board, my “good morning snuggles alarm clock,” my bathroom monitors, and my security system. I don’t know what I’d do without them.

What about my theory of always having at least three dogs, so I never end up in the zero-dog situation again? I think I have to let that go, because I can barely keep up with these two, and they get along so well I don’t want to do anything to upset the biscuit wagon.

So, there you have it. Mozzie and Oliver. Mozziver. The Direwolves. Poodledactyl and Goldensaurus. My boys.