Montpelier
An old farmer friend of mine, now long gone, was mildly famous in the neighborhood for the ramshackle way he kept his place. The county agent once stopped him from shipping milk because he didn’t have a cement floor in his barn. “I showed him,” he said. “Just dug down a couple of feet, and there it was!”
A traveling salesman once tried to sell him a book on modern small farming. The old guy declined. “But this book’ll show you ways to farm better and smarter,” urged the salesman.
“Heck, I don’t farm as well now as I know how. It’d only make me feel worse.”
I know, this week, just how the old man felt. After mentioning last week that Mother and I had a puppy coming, I’ve had advice pouring in here faster than I can handle it, much less respond.
Example: After chasing the puppy away from chair legs, carpet fringes and the big plastic clip I (used to) use to keep a potato chip bag shut, I was delighted to buy a hollow chewy toy that I fill with peanut butter. Licking the peanut butter out through the narrow hole kept her busy for about 20 minutes at a time. So I was delighted to find a long-lasting rawhide bone to give her. Sure enough, it worked. But within hours I was told that puppies can’t digest the fragments, and I was likely to face either her early, agonizing death or expensive surgery.
I went online with the question, “Rawhide bones dangerous for puppies?” I shouldn’t have been surprised that the answers were all over the dial, and that within two or three posts from various respondents, they were calling each other nasty names, as if they were debating illegal immigration or health care. I sighed and put the bone out of her reach for now.
It’s not as if we weren’t warned. “This is a terrier,” the rescue lady emailed me, “and a puppy, so she’s pretty active.” In response, I found myself channeling my father and grandfather: Ha! You can’t scare old Bill! There’ve been times, the past two days, I’ve almost wished she had. This one’s a handful. But I can tell by the way she watches and approaches me that she’s trying to figure me out, too, and for the same reason: We want to be pleasing to each other.
She’s described as a “border terrier mix,” which means she’s kind of a long-handled, rough-coated Jack Russell who looks at the world through a thin fringe of hair sticking up from her muzzle. Some Facebook “friends” who fancy themselves wags have suggested that she and I look a lot alike, right down to the gray beard in front. I find that sort of comparison slightly offensive, though I must admit that, like her, I don’t usually go outside to go to the bathroom, either.
Terriers were bred originally to hunt foxes — sort of the poor man’s foxhounds. The border terrier’s specialty was diving into bushes and holes in the ground to flush out the poor foxes for the hounds to chase. Then, with its fairly long legs, it could keep up with the chase. This means that she can get herself into some pretty small spaces, and wriggle out of some secure-looking devices and containers to rejoin the life of the house, such as it is.
She came to us via a local rescue organization from another in Seguin, Texas, a bit northeast of San Antonio. I can only imagine what the trip must have been like, and what a shock our cold mornings must be. The obviously loving woman in Texas who sent her north included a few notes. Kiki (her name) is crate-trained — an important blessing for a pup with her energy. She’s “house trained, if you give her a place to potty.” She slept in bed with the trainer, loves snuggles and belly rubs, likes truck rides, “sorta walks on a leash, has great verbal recall, and eats like a champ!”
The trainer nailed it. Kiki loves everyone she meets. She reserves judgment on dogs larger than herself, which means virtually all of them; her first day in Montpelier’s Hubbard Park was a bit of a trial. She’s found out already that I like an early afternoon nap, and as soon as I sit down is up in my lap. I tip the recliner back, and the snuggling starts: She’s small enough to fit in the crook of my arm; so she tucks her head under my shoulder to keep the sun out of her eyes, rolls onto her back to have her belly rubbed, and after a minute or two starts a little soprano snore.
I could be a little miffed that after so much affection from others she so suddenly switched to me as if they’d never existed. But they saved her life, from probably being “put down” in an overcrowded initial shelter, to being partially trained — as much as a 4-month-old puppy can be — to performing all the veterinary procedures, to vetting her potential owners.
As soon as she gets used to calling this place hers, she’ll be guarding it – as much as a 25-pound terrier can. This afternoon she jumped up into my lap here at the desk while I was thinking, with the computer turned off. She saw our figures reflected in the blank screen and growled at us. We don’t want her barking at guests, just barking briefly to let us know somebody’s here. We’ll probably have to work on that. Oh, and there’s the bit about “sorta walks on a leash.” She doesn’t know yet that my balance is questionable, and eventually she’ll probably tangle me up in the lead and cause a crash. So we’re working on staying on the left side and keeping pace. We’ll get there. Meanwhile, don’t send me any more advice; I’ve got all I can handle. The best piece came from the lady at the adoption agency: “In your sight or in your crate.” This young dog is about to learn a lot of new tricks. The question is whether this old one can, too.
Willem Lange can be reached at willem.lange@comcast.net.
