Teaching them to take care of themselves without me is the ultimate weaning. I want them to become adults who are capable and independent, yet also compassionate and kind. Weaning was a little bit easier for Schuyler as her darlings were penned up in our mudroom. She knew exactly where they were and what they were doing. And she had me—directing her days.
As the pups embraced puppy food, Schuyler seemed less enamored of them and preferred to hang with me when given the option. They were nearly five weeks old and now when she went in the puppy pen, she didn’t even lie down to nurse them. She stood there looking mostly miserable until they’d had their fill. She never made herself comfortable. She had no plans to stay. Schuyler was ready to move on. It was clear in the way she’d begun straining at the leash to chase after squirrels or deer. She was more puppy than mom when she rolled on the rug, shook the stuffed animals, and attempted to engage Gracie in play.
The puppies began bonding with me the same way my teens preferred their friends over us. Schuyler seemed WAY less upset about her pups moving on than I was. I wished my kiddos clamored for my attention the way Schuyler’s pups still whined for her. At the same time, I was proud that my kids needed me so little. That month, Addie went to visit American University without me. This was partly because I was once again writing to another deadline for my third book and partly because she was enamored with the idea of a solo adventure in the city.
Sixteen-year-old Addie drove herself to the metro station in Silver Spring, rode the train into D.C., visited American University, and met up with friends. They rode the metro to a museum and then dinner and then back to Silver Spring, before she drove home. Aside from three or four phone calls (The parking lot is full! The copier at the D.C. library is out of service! I can’t find the admissions building!), she managed just fine and had a great day. She learned that she could drive on the D.C. Beltway, utilize public transportation, didn’t want to attend American University, city food was expensive, and you take Route 83 north, not south, to get home.
I tracked her with my phone all day long, keeping her activities on the back burner of my mind, but I also trusted that she was capable and smart and independent, so she would be just fine. And she was. She didn’t need me and that was a good thing, I reminded myself.
Schuyler seemed to be coming to that same conclusion. Now, when she heard the pups scuffling or whining in the other room, she didn’t stand at the gate and whine as she did for the first few weeks of weaning. Instead, she canvased the kitchen for food scraps and begged to go outside. (Or let herself out if we forgot to lock the lever-handle door!)
At six weeks, her pups went from “on hold” to “available for adoption” on the OPH website. They couldn’t be adopted for two more weeks, but this was the beginning of the end for me. The hardest part was writing a little “blurb” on each pup for the website. They were all cute. They were all wonderful. They were all the best one. I would keep every single one of them. But we weren’t running a dog farm, here, despite what the cats told the neighbors. How could I write nine different descriptions of these sweet little, poopy butterballs?
Not easily. Take Peggy. When the other pups rushed me each time I entered their pen, she hung back. She knew that after I had greeted all the others who simply wouldn’t wait as she could, I’d reach for her and snuggle her under my chin, away from the flailing mob beneath. Was she shy? That made her sound less attractive. She’s careful, I wrote.
I wrote nine different descriptions, trying to be honest without throwing anybody under the bus. These were my assessments, but in the end, the kind of dog these pups grew up to be was 90% on the adopter. The pups would need love, that was the easy part, because who doesn’t love a puppy? But they also needed intentional, consistent training. And boundaries. And good food, not the cheap stuff. And plenty of exercise, socialization, and snuggles. Every one of them could be the best dog ever.
Nick petitioned hard to keep Lafayette—the white pup with the solitary black patch over his eye. He tossed out names like Target, Targette (French pronunciation), Spot, and Spanky. Lafayette was a great pup. He had a wonderful sense of humor and could easily be voted most popular in the puppy yearbook. I entertained the idea through one bottle of wine on a gorgeous evening, but later decided, that, no, I didn’t have time for a puppy. And if I’d learned anything from my sweet dog, Gracie, it was that I am not a good puppy trainer. No puppies would be staying; that way there would be room for more puppies to come. (Don’t tell Nick.)
*Yes! They are! The ASPCA says geraniums are fully and totally toxic to all dogs, not to mention cats too. I moved the geraniums to the back of the shelves so there would be no danger of falling leaves.
†She bit the FedEx guy, and now he will only lean out of his truck and drop our packages on our retaining wall.
‡They claimed to love her, but were never willing to go track her down in the pouring rain when she’d run through her invisible fence and spent hours wallowing in horse poop.
§No, there isn’t, but puppies have fragile systems and organs and need proper care and vaccinations. Puppies born in shelters or dumped at shelters sometimes have neither, so they are much more likely to succumb to a preventable ailment than a puppy born to a healthy mother who has received prenatal care.
¶Okay, my own children never did that—but I do remember that it was usually when they were all clean and dressed in the fancy outfit saved for special occasions when they would have one of those horrifying poop-all-the-way-up-the-back episodes.
SEVENTEEN
The Best-Laid Plans
Every day that passed revealed another layer of Schuyler. She was no longer Mama Dog, as we’d called her when she arrived with her brood of nine pups. Now she was Schuyler or Sky. Her mothering duties were over and she was ready to be a dog instead of a mama. This meant she was tearing up toys/stuffed animals/pens/pencils/egg cartons (plus the eggs inside them—who left that on the counter?). She was not just a chewer; she was a destroyer. So far, the saving grace had been Kong toys—she couldn’t make a dent in them and was happy to gnaw away for hours in her efforts. As I worked in my office, I could hear the squeak, squeak, squeak of her chewing, like sneakers on a tile floor.
When I was asked her breed, I always said “dog,” because other than her kind-of-Lab-like appearance there hadn’t been anything to suggest a particular breed. Lab mix was the default breed for rescue dogs with short hair, ears that didn’t stick up, a curving tail, and a medium-large size. I wasn’t suggesting she wasn’t Lab, but I could easily have agreed she was nearly any breed you wanted to suggest. If anything, she was a classic mutt. I saw that as just one more of her many attributes.
Like all good mutts, she was devoted. Schuyler loved me. Never mind that Nick spent more time with her than any of the other dogs we’d fostered, and suggested almost daily that we should keep her. Schuyler liked him very much, even giving a little squeal when she saw him pull in the driveway. She liked Ian too, greeting him with happy wags when he appeared. She even liked Addie, who took loud offense at Schuyler’s friendly, snuffly nose.
But she had chosen me.
When I worked in the kitchen, I could feel her eyes following my every move. When I went outside, I had to lock the door because she quickly figured out how to work the lever handle door so she could let herself out to follow me. While I did barn work or garden work, she waited at the kitchen door, watching, vigilant. If she caught sight of me, her excitement spilled over and she would leap at the door. Nick told me that she would jump so high her head reached the top panes of the French door.
She was athletic and getting stronger every day. We’d been running together regularly and she was up to about 3.5 miles. She loved our runs and bounded out the door in the morning, spinning excited circles.
Six puppies left one by one that second week of May, and as they did I felt my energy draining. Were they taking my happy with them? The last few weeks had been a whirlwind of activity and stress in my life—both
good and bad.
My second novel was released, and like when I’m Not Her was released, I held my breath. I like to tell my creative writing classes that you have to be brave as a writer—you’re working without a net. Once a book is out there you can’t take it back. And Girls’ Weekend, more than my first book, laid my heart wide open. I would be judged by the quality of the writing, the story itself, the cover, and the sales figures, but more than that, people would have a view into what went on in my head. If one of my characters cheated on her husband, would people think I had? Or if they had embarrassing personal hang-ups or didn’t like their mother, would everyone assume I had these same thoughts and habits? After all, I wrote them. Again and again, at book clubs and at signings, I was asked, “Which character are you?” as if this was an autobiography. I would say, “I’m none of them, but I’m all of them,” and I meant it. A writer’s stories can’t help but be shaped by the experiences she’s had and the person she is. As Brady’s favorite T-shirt says: Careful or you might end up in my novel.
It was hard not to be distracted by the reviews and the comments online. I needed to focus on finishing the latest draft of my next book, but stilling my mind to enter that story wasn’t easy.
The weekend after the book came out, Addie competed in the York County Distinguished Young Women program. She’d been preparing for it for months, groaning about the dress requirements—not too much sparkle, a hem that hit exactly below the knee, no excess skin or cleavage. She’d spent weeks working on a speech focused on one issue, only to be informed on the day before the contest that the requirements dictated she talk specifically about a different issue. She’d missed several meetings because she was rehearsing for the school musical, and somehow she’d missed that directive. She had to pull a new speech together in hours.
The physical-fitness portion required that she wear a gaudy, embarrassing outfit with capris and a glittery top, plus black tennis shoes with NO label.* It was the sort of outfit she might have swooned over when she was four, but at sixteen she looked and felt ridiculous. The talent portion was the only part she wasn’t stressing over. It was the one piece of the competition she would enjoy. She’d wear a gaudy gown she’d found at a consignment shop for a dollar and sing a tongue-in-cheek operatic piece she’d always wanted to perform but never had the opportunity.
On the morning of the competition, she asked if I would drive her to the venue. I was a little surprised as she had driven herself to every meeting and rehearsal for months. As we drove to York, we talked about the interview portion of the competition. She was the rare teen who paid attention to politics and international news, but still she worried she wouldn’t have the answers. I asked her if she’d made any friends during the program and she told me the other girls were nice, but no, she hadn’t really made any new friends.
When she got out of the car, I helped her hand off her dresses and the rest of her gear to the volunteers who would take them backstage. And then I hugged her. She held on to me a long time and I could feel the nerves she so rarely showed. “I love you and no matter what happens up there today—I’m proud of you,” I told her. I forced a smile. I didn’t want her to see that I was terrified for her. She nodded, holding back tears. “And remember,” I told her as she started to walk away, “You’re just playing a part.”
I smiled and drove out of the parking lot, but then had to pull over to cry. I hated leaving her there to be judged. She was so much more than a rehearsed dance number and exercise routine. More than makeup and hair and a just-right dress. I felt jangly all day, imagining what was happening backstage in that huge auditorium. She would compete in the interview portion and then have rehearsals, hair, and makeup before the public portion of the competition that evening. I’d recruited lots of her friends to send well-wishes and gifts that would be delivered backstage an hour or so before the evening’s competition. I sent sparkly blue slippers to put on her feet after she took off the painful, proper pumps she was required to wear. I’d done all I could to support her, now I could only hope. I didn’t care anymore about scholarships or winning, I just wanted her to feel good about herself when it was over.
Watching her on stage that night, I was incredibly proud, but also terrified and a little bit sad. Just like with my new book, Addie was putting herself out there in the limelight to be judged. My heart broke with her bravery. The contest required her to conform her dress and behavior, and to me it went against so much of who she was and who I hoped I’d taught her to be. My daughter is nothing if not an individual. She had always marched to the beat of a different drum and she’d always been the one to beat that drum herself. I was beyond proud to see her step up to this challenge, but I felt her terror at the same time.
Addie didn’t win, at least not on that stage, but to my mind she did. She won over her own doubts and fears. She did something crazy-scary and pushed herself outside her comfort zone. And she inspired me—I needed to stop being such a chicken in my own writing and explore the parts of my heart I held too close, afraid to share, afraid I’d look stupid or silly. Being a true artist requires a level of bravery very few possess. I wanted to be an artist like my daughter.
That week Brady finished his finals and returned from his first year of college, which should have lessened the stress. No more wondering about what he was doing and whether he was taking care of himself. Now he was under our roof again. The first night he was home, I couldn’t sleep as I listened to him laughing with friends until late and then pacing the kitchen after they left. Brady’s year at college had solidified his nocturnal nature, and the next night Nick put a box fan set on high in our room to muffle the sounds.
The following weekend at a soccer game, Ian sustained a concussion, taking a ball point-blank to the face from an equally large opponent. The referee rightly insisted he go “get checked out,” so Nick drove him to a local clinic where it was confirmed, that yes, he did have a concussion. No sports for one week and then a reevaluation.
I’d always worried about Ian’s head, now I worried more. Besides having alopecia areata, Ian was prone to migraines. He’d been getting them ever since he’d fallen off a truck (while it was parked) when he was three and suffered a skull fracture. Reading the concussion protocol from the soccer league, school, and doctor caused me to revisit the cause of those migraines. We’d kept a journal of what he’d eaten and done before the onset of each migraine, but we’d not yet been able to find consistent triggers. We’d lessened their frequency by eliminating food dyes, MSG, and artificial ingredients as much as possible, but he still had about four migraines a year. Each one took him down for several days—lying in the dark, vomiting with any movement, miserable. He was starting high school in the fall. Maybe it was time to revisit the neurologist. I wrote myself a reminder note and taped it to the corner of my desk so that I wouldn’t forget to follow up amid our suddenly chaotic life.
As the puppies left with their very excited adopters. I made careful notes in my kennel record as to where they went and when they left. There had been a rumor that the dog warden would be coming by for an inspection that week. I kept the puppy pen as spotless as I could, considering there were still three large, busy puppies left, and I quizzed all the kids on where the fire extinguishers were on each floor of our house, as I’d be told that was the most common reason people failed an inspection.
It didn’t help that the weather seemed to be stuck in a succession of gray, rainy, cold days. Gray days got to me. That made it very hard to slap on a smile and put up with the daily messes and stresses. I don’t know how people manage who live in the Pacific Northwest. Maybe you get used to it. It was May, though, so the gray weather was inappropriate and draining.
As summer bore down on us and regular routines flew out the window, I became absolutely certain of one thing—the presence of animals was critical for my survival. I could not have survived those stressful, gray, rainy weeks without those puppies. Research says that people who own dogs live longer. No l
ess than Harvard Medical School proclaimed that, Having a pet—a dog in particular—likely lowers the risk of heart disease.† I’m pretty sure it’s not just the increased exercise that’s so good for your heart.
Six of the puppies were safely set in their forever homes where reports abounded that they were love and adored, and susceptible to car sickness (just like their mom). One of the adopters started a Facebook group for the puppies so they could stay in touch and share their news. The one thing that makes giving up a dog you’ve spent weeks, sometimes months nurturing is knowing that they are safe and happy. Some adopters are good about sending me updates, but many don’t take me seriously when I say, “Stay in touch,” as they pull out of my driveway. The puppy page on Facebook was a bright spot in my day. Seeing a notification that someone had posted a picture always put a smile on my face, and I took time to look at it, even if I was in the middle of something.
Schuyler was soon to have her spay operation and then she would go home with her forever family who had been following her progress on the blog. Her remaining puppies, Maria, Peggy, and Eliza were all due to go home that week also. The puppy room was emptying out.
Maria’s adopter arrived early on Wednesday morning to pick her up. We’d had very sporadic email communication. He was the only adopter who hadn’t inundated me with questions and excitement over his impending puppy adoption. I contacted his adoption coordinator and expressed my concern that he wasn’t as excited about his puppy as he should be, especially since he was adopting one of my favorite pups. She assured me that it seemed like a good home. There had been some complication and delay in the adoption only because the adopter wanted Maria to be a surprise for his girlfriend, and the adoption coordinator had to say, “No, we don’t do surprises at OPH. This is a dog we’re talking about. A lifetime commitment.” Eventually, the adopter assured her that the girlfriend was in the loop and would be coming to pick up Maria with him.
Another Good Dog Page 19