Let Me Tell You about Jasper . . .

by Dana Perino

  That isn’t true. Jasper would sit and then a big fountain of pee would start (and that’s impossible to stop!). We were forever in the hallway trying to clean up the stains.

  Jasper got to the point that he didn’t want to go into the hall because that’s where he got in trouble for peeing on the carpet. So then he wouldn’t pee in the apartment, but he didn’t want to leave, either. So we had to coax him out. We tried everything—food, squeaky toys, pleading, tickets to the opera… Often we had to give up and just carry him because we didn’t have time for tricks and games before he’d need to go.

  One of my sweetest memories was watching Jasper hold on to his dad’s neck with his two paws and rest his chin on his shoulder as he was carried into the hall and down to the lobby. (I began to think that Peter was the potty training whisperer.) It seemed like Jasper knew he wasn’t able to get it through his little puppy skull and he was embarrassed. Which made him even more endearing.

  Eventually, Jasper’s bladder grew enough to hold it longer so that he didn’t need to be hauled over our shoulders. But then I kind of missed carrying him around.

  Potty training from forty-six floors up was a lot to ask of any puppy. Peter ended up carrying Jasper, because Jasper was reluctant to go into the hallway where he often lost control of his bladder. If he was carried, there was no problem!

  Once I was in a hurry and decided I’d just try to carry him. I looked ridiculous, like I was lugging a forty-pound sack of potatoes… but I loved holding him and knew I wouldn’t be able to do it for much longer.

  As Jasper grew, he needed more room to run. He was an active puppy. I loved how he’d make figure-eight obstacle courses for himself in the apartment, zooming from one room to the next, under the coffee table and around the rocking chair, into the bedroom and back. He ruined the loops on the handwoven rug, but we didn’t mind.

  We’d sit in the kitchen and watch him go back and forth, grinning with the joy of seeing a playful puppy destroy our apartment. Peter’s theory is that puppies are so cute for a reason—if they weren’t, we’d kill them out of extreme frustration.

  When the apartment was too small and he needed some off-leash running space, we’d go to separate ends of our apartment floor and call to him just with hand signals so we didn’t disturb our neighbors, and Jasper would sprint from one end to the next, getting all of his energy out. (Later we found out that a Vizsla’s top speed is even faster than a Whippet’s, thirty-six to forty miles per hour, respectively. Another bragging point, yet one that’s not necessarily an advantage in a New York apartment.)

  There was also a doggy day care in our building. My grandfather would never have believed such a thing existed, but I think he would have approved. Heck, he may have even wanted to work there.

  The doggy day care staff saved us. They’d pick up Jasper at 11 a.m. and he’d stay for the puppy and small dog hour and then again for the big dog hour. He was dropped off around 3 p.m., exhausted from all the finger painting. I kid—the dogs just wrestled for hours.

  Doggy Day Care group photo on Jasper’s last day before we moved to the Upper West Side to be nearer to Central Park.

  They also helped us with his training, taking him outside to do his business and practicing the basics with him. The woman that ran the day care had such a strong voice that I told Peter, “If she told me to sit, I’d sit!”

  There were other advantages for a puppy living in an apartment. Jasper loved to ride on the luggage carts, and the doormen would fetch one for him so that we could give him a little ride around the lobby. And they’d give him treats every time he came in from a wander around the block.

  Jasper loved to ride on the luggage carts as a puppy.

  In the mornings, Peter would walk Jasper up to Central Park for its leash-free hours, and by the time he got back, he’d been gone two and a half hours. Our lease was coming due and we realized we needed to leave our apartment with a great view so that we could be closer to the park.

  When we left that building, we offered to replace the carpet in the hallway, but they turned a blind eye to it.

  “You’re not the only one with a dog up there,” the manager said with a wink.

  And really, if peeing on the rug is the worst thing that happens in your New York apartment building, you got off easy.

  Dog on the Loose—and Dragging a Table

  (AS TOLD BY PETER)

  IN THE SUMMER OF 2012, Dana was in Florida at the Republican Convention, so I decided to take four-month-old Jasper to visit friends in Annapolis. They of course loved the adorable puppy, and I took him for walks and let him swim on a small beach.

  One morning I decided to take him to the City Dock area where I had often walked with Henry; he and I would stop at a small café there and sit outside—he would enjoy a biscotti while I drank my coffee.

  I tied Jasper’s leash to a wrought-iron table and told him to sit while I went and ordered my drink. As he was just outside the door I could see him through the glass.

  Just after I turned away to pay for my drink, someone said to me, “Excuse me, is that your dog?” Thinking he was about to say the usual “cute puppy” or similar, I smiled, nodded, and looked out the window, at which point my smile vanished.

  Jasper on the beach. Can you tell he wants to go kayaking?

  Jasper was running across the road dragging the table behind him.

  I rushed from the coffee shop just as he was reaching the other side where a truck was parked and unloading. Jasper had moved and pulled the table—this made a noise, which frightened him, and he took off.

  Unfortunately, this only exacerbated the situation, as the table was banging and clanking at the other end of the leash, and he was unable to escape the very thing he was running from.

  I ran across the road shouting, “Jasper, Jasper, it’s okay, baby,” but by the time I reached the other side, he had run around the truck and was about to cross the road again. He might have been only four months old, but he was already strong and surprisingly fast—even pulling a table!

  He then rounded the front of the truck and commenced back across the road. Fortunately, the street was quiet with no traffic, but a Mercedes and a BMW were parked diagonal to the curb, and he chose to run through the parking space between them. The dollar signs flashed before my eyes, but by a miracle he and his hitched-up table passed through leaving the vehicles unscathed.

  By the time I finally caught him, he had crossed the road again on his second lap, and the table got stuck under the tail lift of the truck. The poor little guy was frantic, so I held him and talked gently to calm him. But as soon as we started back across the road, me dragging the table this time, he freaked out again, so I had to carry the table.

  When I looked up I saw a gaggle of faces at the window of the café as the laughing customers all took in the spectacle. I tied Jasper to the parking meter, then went inside for my drink.

  “I don’t suppose anyone got that on video?”

  They had not. I was partly disappointed and partly relieved because my first thought was, “Dana is going to kill me.”

  (I waited a couple of weeks to tell her. Thankfully, she saw the humor in it by then!)

  Separation Anxiety—But Whose?

  One of the things I’ve never been good at is teaching a dog that it is okay for them to be alone. Partly because I don’t particularly like to be alone either. I project my feelings onto my dogs.

  I didn’t do a great job with leaving Henry by himself when we lived in England, and I did an even worse job with Jasper.

  But I wasn’t alone to blame—Jasper was different.

  From the first week we had Jasper, I could tell that he was unlike any other dog I’d known.

  Where Henry was regal, Jasper was goofy; where Henry learned tricks right away, Jasper didn’t seem to grasp the idea—he’d just look at me, head tilted, as if he was saying, “I don’t get it.” He also may have been wondering, “Who is this crazy lady?”; and where Henry accepted that
he wasn’t allowed on the furniture (for the most part), Jasper never once thought he didn’t belong on the bed or the couch. I wasn’t too strict, though.

  While Henry was affectionate, he didn’t try to be on top of us all the time. He was happy to lie in his bed or on the floor in front of the fire.

  Henry was dignified and would be excited but not crazed. He kept his cool.

  Jasper, on the other hand, felt every emotion and showed it.

  He was sillier, funnier, sadder, and more frightened than any dog I’d met. When I tried to teach him to bark on command, like I did with Henry, Jasper cowered when I pretended to bark at him (I’ve also tried this on Gutfeld; doesn’t work).

  And he was the least food-oriented dog I’d ever had, so teaching him with treats was difficult. He just wasn’t interested in food, and we had to coax him to eat. He was, in many ways, like a very sensitive adolescent, without the goth eyeliner.

  Henry accepted his role as the family dog, but Jasper thought he was one of us. When I stood at the kitchen counter working on my laptop, in my favorite first-position ballet pose, Jasper curled up in the triangle between my feet. If I went to the bathroom, he sat on the rug. He never took his eyes off me. I looked anywhere but at him—as you can imagine, it was a little awkward!

  I loved to work from home getting ready for the show when Jasper was a puppy.

  We intended to train Jasper to be in a crate when we were gone. It is a very good way to keep a dog safe and to teach them to be alone. And Jasper actually liked going into the crate we got him. He’d twist himself into the strangest positions and go into the crate even by himself. There was just one little thing. He didn’t like the crate door to be shut, so I didn’t close it.

  How could we say no to that face!?

  And that’s how I ruined him.

  Okay, he clearly wasn’t ruined, but one day I did exactly what I’d have told others not to do.

  Jasper in a normal “comfy” position, sleeping in his crate. I love pliable puppies.

  It was October 2012, and the presidential election between President Barack Obama and Governor Mitt Romney was intense. I was asked to appear on Governor Mike Huckabee’s weekend Fox News program on a Saturday afternoon, and I agreed. The problem was Peter was out of the country on business, and Jasper hadn’t been left on his own for that long before then.

  I hired a young woman to come take care of him—she’d not been to the apartment before and misjudged the time it would take to get there. She was running late, and I needed to get to the studio. She promised me she would be only fifteen minutes more, so I decided that Jasper and I were going to have to part ways and I would have to leave him alone for the first time.

  From an early age, Jasper had watched every move we made. He may not have been able to do all the tricks Henry could, but he was smart and intuitive. He picked up on routines quickly—shutting my laptop was his first clue that I was going out. Putting my dress and shoes into my tote bag was confirmation that I was about to leave. He’d sit in front of the coat closet so that he had to be moved to open the door. And sunglasses or keys confirmed his worst fear—that was when he knew for sure that I was about to leave. I saw panic in his eyes.

  I shouldn’t have been so worried, because Peter had left him alone in the apartment with the crate closed with no problems. And I was making matters worse, because Jasper was surely picking up on my nervous energy.

  But Jasper and I had always had this connection. I remember when he first was taken for a walk by his dog walker, Barbara. I cried as he went down the hallway, looking back at me. I thought he’d be scared because no one besides Peter and I had ever cared for him. He wasn’t, and Barbara has become one of his favorite humans.

  Like a mom saying good-bye to her child on the first day of kindergarten, I was, in a word, ridiculous. I know Jasper is a dog and not a child—but he and Henry were the closest things to children that I ever took care of. And it felt good to feel that kind of love, to be protective over a beating heart. Given a chance, I’d take that emotion over any other, any time.

  I knew all of this and still I had a lot of anxiety about leaving him, too. I made sure not to make eye contact with him as I gathered my things, acting as if it was no big deal. I believe that the calmer you are as a dog owner, the more chilled out your dog will be. Not so with Jasper as a puppy.

  I gathered him next to his crate and got some biscuits out, I kissed his head, and while outwardly I looked fine, I was churning inside. And he knew it. I had to push his rear end into the crate.

  I shut the crate door and latched it. It was like the sound of a cell block gate on death row. Then I pushed a couple of treats through the gaps.

  I kept it together and said, in my best authoritative Mary Poppins imitation, “Have a nap, and I’ll be back soon.” (Yes, to me, Mary Poppins sounds authoritative. I follow the rules!)

  My eyes betrayed me. I was as worried and upset as he was.

  I walked out of our front door and started down the long hall to the elevators. I got about ten paces when I heard something I’d never heard before. It was a pathetic wail mixed with a moan and a yelp (which is not all that unusual in New York City, but still…).

  Was that… Jasper?

  I slowed but then thought, “I’ll let him cry it out,” and kept walking. But I lived in an apartment with a ton of neighbors, and the cries were getting louder with every step. I’d never heard anything like that. It certainly would have been considered a violation under the Geneva Convention.

  And so, against everything I knew to do when training a dog, I ran back to the apartment. I tried to calm him through the crate, but he wouldn’t settle. I begged him to cooperate. “I’ve gotta go to work, Jasper. Please.” He was inconsolable.

  So I let him out of the crate and picked him up, and he whimpered as he nuzzled his nose under my chin.

  I texted the dog sitter with one hand as I held Jasper in the other. She said she was just fifteen minutes away, but that’s what she’d said fifteen minutes ago. I either had to try again or I’d have to take him with me to the studio.

  I decided to try again. I put him back in his crate, said with a firm voice that he would be fine, and left, a bit tearful. As soon as the door shut, he wailed louder than before.

  So, what did I do? The wrong thing.

  I opened the door and went back in. I knew right then that I’d made a rod for my own back.

  I took him out of the crate and sat with my back against the wall and my legs crossed. He climbed into that circle and pressed against me while I calmed him down. I told him I wouldn’t leave him alone, and he didn’t have to worry.

  The dog sitter arrived a few minutes later and I rushed to the studio, breaking a sweat by the time I jogged over to Times Square from Hell’s Kitchen. I had the dreadful feeling of being a bad dog parent.

  In that instant when I turned back, Jasper and I established a pattern that is still very hard to break.

  After that incident, I felt that I couldn’t leave Jasper alone. When Peter was away and I had to work or we had a dinner to go to, I hired Kyra, the sitter that used to look after Henry in his final days, to take care of Jasper. Kyra was a pre-med student and would come to our apartment and study, walk and feed Jasper, and have him all tired out by the time I got home. We still rely on her. She’s been a great help, and I never worry when Kyra’s there.

  When we moved to the new apartment to be closer to Central Park, Jasper was older and I thought he could handle being alone. But one night when I was a last-minute fill-in host for Greta Van Susteren, who wasn’t feeling well, I found out I was wrong. I’d asked the dog walker to keep him until after I got home at 11 p.m., but it was a Friday night and she had plans. She said she could drop him off at 9:30 p.m., and that was the best we could do under the circumstances. I thought it would be fine because he’d be so tired after being out all day.

  When I finished the broadcast, I turned on my phone during the ride home. I had seven me
ssages from the new building’s management. Our new apartment was in a very established building of condominiums—it was as sophisticated a place as I’d ever lived, and I was making a terrible first impression.

  Jasper had been wailing after the dog walker had dropped him off, and my neighbors were both alarmed and concerned. I knew precisely what Jasper could sound like when he was really laying it on thick—it was the sound he made that got me to come back that first time. Dogs learn fast. Too bad I didn’t.

  I came home and held a trembling Jasper for an hour on the couch. We sat in silence as I soothed him and calmed myself. I’d screwed up everything for the both of us by making him so afraid to be alone and indulging his puppy cries. I didn’t leave his sight that entire weekend.

  What was I going to do now?

  This is a bit embarrassing to admit, but I started making up reasons why I couldn’t go somewhere outside of work. I handle the social calendar for Peter and me, and I politely turned down dinner and party invitations so that we didn’t have to leave Jasper alone. I thought Peter didn’t know what I was doing, but he was on to me. He just shook his head and said, “You love him. I get it.”

  When we did have to leave Jasper alone, I would get knots in my stomach that started several hours before the separation. I never canceled on an event just because of this problem, but it crossed my mind.

  This is what separation anxiety looks like.

  I came up with weird ways to manage it. Since I didn’t want to be the last one Jasper saw when we were leaving, I’d ask Peter if it was okay that I left first. That way it didn’t look to Jasper as if I was abandoning him.

  If I was the last one to leave him, Jasper would cry. When Peter did it, Jasper was fine. Jasper knew who the soft touch was, and he played me like a lute. (Well, maybe not a lute. Who really plays a lute?) So I made Peter be the bad guy.