Shellbee's Story

  At the end of my first two weeks, M.T. went back to her place, and I started a new routine—going to work with Mommy. I pack out for the day to see humans at Mommy’s psychology practice. I don’t know much about time, but I do know it sometimes seems to never end. Thank God for Auntie Linda, Auntie Donna, Cousin Jen, and Doc Ray—my work playmates, who enjoy all my antics. I feel like growling at those contraptions they have on their desks—big boxes they look into with boards to move their fingers on, all of which is accompanied by huge sighs from them. Sighing is a bad sign. So I like to relieve their stress by ripping up paper, jumping on laps, and demanding belly scratches. If something has to get finished, they say to me, “Your mother needs this done.” But I still don’t budge because I know that they can still move their fingers over those silly boards while I’m licking faces and nuzzling necks.

  Working with Mommy has become one of my greatest joys, partly because I get kibble treats at the office. Mommy says, “We have to buy kibble.” Kibble is manna from the sky—after all, DOG spelled backwards is GOD—and it’s the Supreme Being’s job to make sure I eat. Well, my new routine at my new home is work, play, rest, eat, and, most importantly, make every day about me.

  Yours truly, in love,

  Shellbee

  Letter 2

  Puppy School

  Hi, it’s me—Shellbee. Mommy and Pappy signed me up for school. Brother Jimmy said, “Poor, poor puppy—it’s a long, hard road through school!” I’m in kindergarten, plus I have extra private tutoring. Brother Jimmy warned me that Mommy and Pappy would insist on extra help and that I’d be heading off to some doctoral program before I know it (just like him). He said, “You get brainwashed into believing all this schooling is a good idea.” I hope I’m not going to become a Stepford Dog, some robot of good behavior.

  The whole family came to watch my first tutor invade our home and take me over. I was real good; she said I was “smart as a whip.” However, she also called me “mouthy” and “a barker.” She put a silver collar around my upper neck. I didn’t like that collar at all because she would tug on it to correct me. By the end of the lesson, my ears were pinned back, and I was quite suspicious of my family for letting her in our house. Mommy and Pappy tried to explain to the lady that “I’m the sensitive type” and “I respond well to minor corrections.” Mommy and Pappy are really confused about all of this—they want me to be trained, but they are such softies.

  So we tried another tutor—Dogman. I liked him right off the bat. With him, I wasn’t such a Goody Two-shoes . . . sorry, four-shoes—I was my bratty self. Dogman worked with me for an hour while Mommy and Pappy watched. It was leash work (no choker collar), and the goal was for me to choose to behave. I was supposed to stop barking, sit on my own, heel, and walk and return. I barked for twenty minutes, but he didn’t seem to notice or care. He would smile and gently touch me with one finger whenever I chose to behave myself. The other tutor used treats by the handful; Dogman didn’t give me a treat ’til the end of the lesson. I had to be real gentle taking the treat, too, nibbling it from his hand. Dogman said I have a beautiful head and feet. He has a foot fetish (just like my breeder, Ann, has a tail fetish). Fetishes are very interesting. They develop in dogs and humans because of the object’s magical powers. For me, I have certain toys that are inhabited by a spirit which makes me happy when I subdue and curl up with them. I guess my tail and feet have magical powers as well.

  Dogman said I’m “vocal with a lot to say.” He attributes my strong personality to the fact that I came from a large litter. When Mommy and Pappy told him the story of how I was the first one to get to them (I did, of course, pick out Mommy and Pappy), Dogman said, “That says it all—she’s the leader of the pack!” Yes, I admit I can be willful, but I’m also full of joy and love. I really like Dogman. After our session, he lets me go back to Mommy and Pappy for hugs and treats, and when he started leaving, I followed him. Mommy and Pappy saw this as a good sign. Dogman will be my private tutor, but I still have to go to kindergarten. Mommy and Pappy can be willful, too!

  By the way, I love the snow! It’s so deep now I have to work my hiney to get through it. (Calm down—I know how humans like to look at rear ends!) In fact, I love being outside, no matter the season or the weather. Mommy, Pappy, and I like to hike in the woods, where I destroy all the plants I can find. If the wind is blowing, I chase leaves and sticks with the intent of subduing them. Mommy says it’s because I was a fall puppy. We also go walking on the beach. The water is cold, but I venture in up to my ankles. I’m patiently waiting for the warm weather to come; however, I have the attitude that whatever the day brings is wondrous. Every day is a new beginning—new food, treats, hugs, kisses, playtime, and (howl!) training.

  All this schooling has got me to thinking about what is expected of dogs. The American Kennel Club needs to address some of their descriptions related to us dogs. For starters, they should get rid of the words “training” and “obedience.” The problem with those words is that they reflect a hierarchy where humans are dominant and their needs are more important than ours. It’s silly to think that way, given that dogs are their companions and comforters. I say the “training” word should be changed to “companion connection,” and “obedience” should be changed to “comfort connection.” Humans and dogs really are a perfect and equal match—I love my Mommy and Pappy’s companionship (including sleeping in their bed—our dog bed). I also love the comforting feeling I get from our bond. Now, the bonding/obedience issue is a two-way street. It works as well as we both try to make it work. I want to please my family and give them a warm, fuzzy feeling, and I know that my family wants me to feel the same way. The perfect match is for us dogs to feel we and our families are in a safe, orderly place where we’re all striving to create a home filled with love, kindness, and respect. Thus, let it be known I’ll do my best in school, so that our companion/comfort connection is something my family can enjoy with me!

  Yours truly, in love,

  Shellbee

  Letter 3

  Age One Doesn’t Equal Age Seven

  Hi, it’s me—Shellbee. Well, actually, my name isn’t just “Shellbee” these days. It has expanded a lot since I turned one year old, as I have become purposefully bratty. Most of the time now I’m called “Shellbee Ann Campbell.” Dogman says Mommy and Pappy have to deal with my obstinate behavior for six more months. They all swear I should know better than to behave this way! At least my brother Jimmy still calls me C.P. (cutest puppy). He especially calls me C.P. when he’s trying to divert Mommy and Pappy from their obvious dissatisfaction with my acting out. Let’s stick to “acting out” versus “acting in”—psychological terms, I might add. Growing up surrounded by psychologists and psyche buffs can be very annoying. Did you know books have been written about children who were raised by mental health professionals? The pitfalls and perils of the children are well documented. Mainly what happens to them is that the daily analysis from their parents becomes their own Achilles’ heel. In other words, the children go through life “analyzing this, analyzing that,” and then it becomes a movie! You know what? I wouldn’t mind being in the movies, playing my own part—as you’ll see below, I’m already well on my way to being a drama queen.

  I’ve taken to actively stealing goodies from garbage cans. Wads of tissues are a favorite of mine, especially when they glob onto the roof of my trap. High-speed chases occur; no one can catch me, even when they gather all of the troops. However, Mommy finally got the bright idea one day to use a blanket on me. What a nasty trick, I might add. She throws it over me, and I get tackled to the floor. Once I’m immobilized, my trap is opened, and the tissues are removed—even my secret stash way back in the corner of my gums. Howl! They win.

  And my naughty schemes don’t stop there. I also like to swing sticks around with my trap. I’m not allowed to bring my sticks into the house, even though I love them so, so much. I brought three lilac bushes down to nubs by swinging around my sticks
like nunchuks. I prance around with my hard-earned prizes in my trap, climbing up the deck stairs to try to get into the house. It’s ridiculous how Pappy greets me: he opens the door and says, “Drop that stick”; I try to push past his large, tree-trunk body, but he closes the door. How insulting is that—having the door to your home shut in your furry face? The door opens, closes, opens, and closes until I drop my stick. I have to give in, but I’ll never give up. Life should be about perseverance in the face of all challenges. Fear not for me—I will win this game!

  Now, acting out with Pappy might be okay, but acting out in school with Dogman isn’t a great idea. Did you know he sometimes drags me along the ground? One day, Dogman and I had a face-off. I acted like Mahatma Gandhi, planting myself on the ground. I wasn’t tired from the lesson—I was tired of the nonsense related to the lesson. Well, Dogman planted himself, too, with the leash snug to his chest, and he walked and dragged me along behind him. There I was, a big dustball heading for the curb. I eventually got tired of the speed bumps and stood up. Uncle Mike said, “Let’s call Shellbee a cigarette and take her for a drag.” Real funny. Ha, ha! My audience carried on with their belly laughs. I’m so glad I could entertain you all!

  Yours truly, in love,

  Shellbee Ann Campbell

  Letter 4

  The Saga Continues

  Hi, it’s me—Shellbee. I am still going to school, and I am so tired because family class was on Saturday. Mommy, Pappy, and I arrived at school early, so we waited in the pet store. I about fainted from all the smells and dogs and treats—piles and piles of treats! My nose was running, my feet were airborne, my heart was pounding, and my eyes were bulging. It was truly an out-of-body experience. In fact, I was so stunned that I actually appeared calm. Mommy has this crazy way of helping me deal with novel experiences (or just when she wants to enjoy nature with me). She kneels behind me, pulls me in close, and takes some deep breaths before becoming very still. It relaxes me, and we take it all in together. Sue was teaching my class and she starts off every class by letting the calmest dogs into the room first. I was number three. Not bad for a beginner. The other dogs in my class were all sizes, shapes, and colors. Some were so tiny, they reminded me of Jakey from work (more on Jakey, the Miniature Pinscher, later).

  Once we’re all inside the classroom, Sue lays down the law right away: no looking at other dogs, no barking, no jumping, no, no, no. Ironically, you can’t say “no” either. That’s one rule Mommy and Pappy have had to learn; now they either withdraw their attention from me, or they make a weird sound, “eh eh.” Lucky for me, Sue also focuses on a lot of positive reinforcement (treats!)—that is, if I behave. Barking is particularly frustrating for me because I have a voice that needs to be heard, but I also need to learn when it’s time to talk and when it’s time to be quiet. You’d be proud; I barked only two times in class—once just for the fun of it and once in response to the other barks. Sue called me “bossy” in front of the whole class. As a matter of fact, I was the only one singled out as “bossy.” Gee, one indiscretion, and you get labeled! It’s the way of the world to pathologize everyone. Such a silly thing to do. If we just focused on what’s good and positive, the world would be a happier place. (I decided in my cognitive-therapy session to reframe my “bossy” title into something positive—I’ll talk about that at the end of this letter.) Sue also used me as the bad example of a jumping greeter. On cue, I leaped up to Sue as she approached; however, I wasn’t given enough rope to get to her. After a couple of tries, I sat when she approached, and then I got a treat. I say jumping isn’t bad. I love this way of greeting people; it’s in my nature—what better way to get a close-up connection with someone? But Mommy and Pappy insist on me stopping, so my days as a jumping greeter are short-lived. I just hope it’s not an addiction that lands me in a twelve-step program for Jumpers Anonymous.

  Other than a few barks and jumps, class has been real easy for me because I know all the other tricks: sit, down, stay (sort of), while eating treats during the lessons. Mommy and Pappy don’t use a lot of treats at home, so school has its perks. I hope they learn to give treats more often (they need to really pay attention to that part).

  By the end of my class on Saturday, I was all tuckered out. Mommy and Pappy kept staring at me when we got home because my behavior was unusual. I chose to sleep under the table or behind the couch instead of on the couch with them. I was kind of drugged from the experience and had to sleep it off. Plus, it was raining cats and dogs—a perfect day to be lazy.

  The next day we went to Dogman for my private lesson. Imagine you’re me: you’re still a puppy, you go to work five days a week, keeping the office in check, and then you go to school on the weekends. It’s a bit much, don’t you think? My brother Jimmy warned me about this. I can really trust him because he knows the way of the Mommy-Pappy world. He tells me there’s no use in bellyaching, and he’s right—you just do what you have to do!

  Even though it’s no fun going to extra lessons, I still love Dogman. Everyone has to participate, too, so at least I’m not the only one who has to work on Sundays! (Uncle Mike likes to come along with us.) You should see Mommy during leash training: she squeezes her eyes closed if she has to give it a tug to correct me. My mommy is a big marshmallow—a real softy. Dogman is patient with her because he feels her essence toward me. So the class moves at Mommy’s pace; thank God she’s a slow learner. Pappy always asks really intelligent questions that lead to wonderful talks. Dogman says things like, “Look at what you have” and “Shellbee’s great” and “Even if you did nothing with her, she’d be perfect in a few years.” My ears perk right up. I hang on the “do nothing with her” part—it’s the best idea I’ve heard yet. But no, it’s back to class for little me. Dogman has worked with me a lot on greeting. He gently tells me, “No jumping. I hate when you do that.” Dogman has a secret, magical way of holding my leash. I’ll stop my jump in midair and sit, and I’ll have no idea how I got there. He must have some scientific, physiological, mathematical equation for the technique. I’m sure Pappy’s statistical science head could figure it out; however, it’s okay with me if Pappy doesn’t try it out, because we have to be patient with the slow learners like my Mommy. For one of my lessons, Dogman had everyone stand in a circle for me to greet them—properly, like a lady. It was fun to see them smile and give me a treat—I’m happy to enhance their joy (plus get a treat). I was being so good that I couldn’t help breaking loose on Dogman; I caught him off guard and got three jumps in. It was a challenge to pull one over on him, and he warned me that “in a couple more lessons, we’re gonna be done with that.” We smiled at one another because the gauntlet had been thrown down—let the games begin! Even though Dogman doesn’t want me to be a jumper, we’re still friends. At the end of my lesson, I stood quietly next to him (he’s a breather like Mommy). After a while, I lay down and curled up on his feet to feel the bond between us. We were bonding. I really like him, and he has only good things to say about me. While I lay there, Mommy and Pappy told him all my stories of naughty behavior, but he reminded them that I have a great sense of humor so it’s okay to let some stuff slide. He also said it’s okay to have one bad habit—but jumping can’t be it. Howl! My kangaroo days will be over soon.

  I’m about ready to say woof woof for now—but I had promised to explain the cognitive reframing of my “bossy” title. It’s like the good old days, back in that puppy litter of mine. I was the leader of the pack (at least in my own mind). So here I am, a room full of funny-looking dogs, and I’m the boss, so I have every right to be bossy! Sticks and stones can break my bones, but names will never hurt me.

  Yours truly, in love,

  Shellbee

  Letter 5

  Cape Elizabeth, Maine

  Hi, it’s me—Shellbee. Mommy, Pappy, and I went to a pet-friendly oceanfront inn—Inn by the Sea—in Cape Elizabeth, Maine. My journey began on the ferry ride across the Long Island Sound, where I sat on the top deck to smell the s
alty air while gently rolling with the waves. Remember, my first trip home was by ferry on Halloween—October 31, 2004.

  I’ve attached the dog menu from Inn by the Sea for your perusal. It’s a fabulous place set up for all pets to enjoy. Catch this: you get a dog treat when you check in, and your hotel room is filled with doggy accoutrements like bowls, blankets, poo-poo bags, and hoses to rinse off the salt water after swimming. My life is very adventurous, and the places I’ve seen help me expand my mind. I’m going to have surgery soon, and my physical capabilities will be limited, so one of my many veterinarians, Dr. Mary Ellen McLaughlin, said to Mommy and Pappy, “Keep her mind active—that’s what Shellbee needs.” No problem there—Mommy and Pappy love going on new adventures with me!

  This trip was also arranged so I could see my breeder, Ann, her husband, Randy, and my Labrador relatives. We drove to Northingham, New Hampshire, to my birthplace, where I was given the official name Woodloch’s Halloween Treat. I was a bundle of movement when we arrived. Ann said, “Let her off the leash; we’ll go in, she’ll be calmer that way.” Ann was right—into the house we went to see Scout, a resident black Lab, and Howelly, my grandmother. I used to sleep with Scout as a puppy—his favorite pastime is to take the new puppies to his bed. Now, Grandma Howelly is my clone—or I am hers. We look alike, lounge around alike, and have the same perfectly sweet nature. While I was reacquainting myself with everyone, all the people enjoyed a feast, of course—food is a central element of the human way of being on earth together. Never fear, I had tidbits fed to me by Mommy, and Scout and Grandma Howelly got some, too. My mommy was once again identified as the “easy mark,” the “softy,” but that’s okay by us dogs because our whole world is dependent on humans, so why not take advantage of the weakest link!