Eleven Months and Counting!

It's been months since I have blogged at all, but in that time Socrates has gone about becoming his own special self, even as he approaches his one-year birthday April 27. Since my last blog, Socs has weighed in at a high of 29 lbs plus ( I hope his new diet has stated working, but who knows?), eaten dark chocolate and thus was forced to vomit it all up through the use of Hydorgen Peroxide and lots of belly shaking, learned that he has a heritage of corralling cattle by nipping at their legs, which translates into our  human feet from ankle to toes, and he's decided that ringing a bell mreely to get us to open the back door is an extra step he needn't take when all he really has to do is stand there and bark. 

Corgi puppy as I still sometimes call him has become Corgi doggy (notice I can't think of him as a full grown anything thus the extra gy in doggy) and is as cute and lovable as ever. His character traits, however, have hardened some , as  HE decides if feels like paying attention to our commands!
Dancing is his new fun trick as he jumps up and down on his hind legs. He does of course do all the tricks he used to but sometimes, often times has to be cajoled through the use of a doggy bribe better known as treats. Cajoled every single time, as if he is saying: "I KNOW what you want me to do, but what's in it for me?"

And talk about commands, we  dropped out of dog obedience lessons after the third lesson as clearly Socs wasn't happy about waiting around for all the other puny "puppies-- younger than him-- to get whatever the lesson of the moment might be; as a result in between waiting for new commands he'd barge in to any of several other puppies's business and sniff and jump and generally become uninterested in being fed and clicked at constantly... in deference to being social (a chip off the old block, me).  In the end, actually well before the end, I just got  tired of pulling and tugging at him. The teacher also, it appears, liked to stick with animals and their people were were doing best not worst, which in Soc's case was calamity for poor old me, as Socs got nervous at the same time as he snubbed the "lesson plus clicking the clicker plus feeding"  and rarely performed  as  he would have at home. Besides exhibiting doggy ADHD he also appeared to have an anxiety attack each time, and no matter how much he had pooped before a lesson,  Socs managed to poop anew once inside  the training facility... it was downright embarrassing and exhausting. Mid-third lesson, I decided I had already done a fine job on my own, and could not deal with Socrates apparent return to confused puppyhood: For during those three plus weeks, even at home, he began peeing and pooping inside at all the wrong times-- obviously regression (and not the mathematical type) from being overstressed.

No surprise, I  love the puppy he was and the dog he is becoming. What's more, my husband--who never had taken THAT  much of liking to previous pets of ours--absolutely adores the spunkiness that's Socrates, and they've become fast friends, especially since my husband gets home earlier than I do... and they have lots of special man and dog time together. My iPhone is filled with Socs photos sleeping and dancing and cheering on the Patriots in his own number 39 NFL Jersey, looking suave and looking cute and just, well, looking him. His presence in our lives is a blessing in the form of producer of daily smiles and hugs and smiles and hugs again and again and again. One thing he's definitely clung to is his ability as a wonderful kisser and doesn't just kiss on command but greets each us us with kisses whenever  he gets a chance. With me that's pretty much any time he wants!

POST 5 THE OH-NO NOT THIS!

If I had been Socrates this morning, I would have been very suspicious: 'After all, what morning don't my people feed me breakfast? What morning are there no treats and no tricks I have to do to get them? There's water here and that's it... BORING!'

That's what I would have been thinking if I were Socs, and if I knew what we knew that today was "oh no, not neutering  day!"  Yup. Socs, when you get home , I hope you'll be forgiving; it came up on us without warning, really.
Yesterday, pretty late in the day, the vet had called to make sure Socrates was coming in at 7 in the morning and that we should make sure not to feed him after 6 pm, and that they would be boarding him overnight--after the 'deed was done.' Of course they didn't call it the 'deed,'  and they didn't think much of it.

But I had, a lot. I thought I'd put it off until Socrates was at least nine months (I heard that does no harm). In my heart of hearts, I didn't want him to be neutered. He's so adorable, so beautifully marked, so what if he isn't show dog material, so what if he isn’t what "they call" breeding material? Why the heck not? I saw your Dad, Socs--and he sure as heck didn't look much like breeding material to me; he was a blah kind of color and well, I also  hate to say this, but he was a real roly-poly dog, way past 40 pounds, which is in Corgi poundage  obese, and by all reckoning, he just liked to lie around the farmhouse and sleep, oh and eat. His name was Lucky and his mate's name was Charm (how clever), but it was Lucky I was most focused on. He had a really laid back personality that matched his portly posing; he was a sweet dog who, I guess, just got used to eating, and sleeping,  and siring, You know, same old, same old!

As for neutering Socs I went through all the dumb excuses. What if he got sluggish and fat? That doesn't happen to dogs when they get neutered! It’s a myth. (And after all, just take a look that his unneutered dad!) I thought, wow, what if Socs ever had the chance to  sire some pups of his own? Wouldn't they be really, really cute, a chip off the old Socs, and all. I went through all the reasons not to neuter him -- including all the silly myths I knew were myths, but couldn’t help uncovering anyway.

Well, I do know better; there are too many dogs; it's pet overpopulation, and every year I even show my students a video on pet overpopulation "Best Friends Forgotten" hosted by David Ducovny (of X-Files fame and dog spokesperson-obviously dog lover).

So now Socs isn't here. I came home tonight and knew he wouldn't be. He’s staying over at the Vets, as they had told us . We don't know why exactly, but maybe it's better--maybe we don't want to be associated with the gruesome event. Let Socs blame it on the Vet, not us. It's kind of lonely here though, good thing I  do so much work for my course blogging , and blogging,  and blogging...

Someone  just went out to the porch and rang the bell that Socrates usually rings when he wants to be let out (he learned that all by himself, all we did was hang the bell at snout and paw height). But this time-- but it wasn't Socs ringing, just a human.  Tonight I do not have to share my rice cakes, or get my socks bitten as soon as I peel them off my feet; tonight I don’t have to bring Socs out in the cold and shiver till he's done with his business; tonight I don't have decide whether or not I go to sleep early and bring him with me onto the bed and later someone else will bring him down to his crate. So, tonight's peaceful --and cheerless. Socs certainly can fill a room and make everyone in it cheery!

Tonight, all the right people are here; they are loving, and kind, and caring. They are also Socs’ favorite people, every one of us and we're all thinking he misses us but is probably sleeping it off, so he won’t have to think about where he's been and what he's missing; maybe he’s just tired out from the day’s events, anyway. 

Tomorrow when he comes home, will he be different, not just in a physical way, I mean his personality? Will he nip a little less and kiss a little more—but, he was already doing that on his own! Well, the deed is done, and the vet called to say everything was fine. I hope you agree with that Socs, and don't feel any different really. 

There's a bright side to all this too: Now you'll get to go and play with abandon in the dog park at the vet school property with all the other dogs off leash, and if you jump and romp, and play and get into a little trouble, at least it won't be that kind of trouble! You know, if we hadn’t had you neutered, you probably would have thought it lots of fun to pick out an award winning dachshund, or King Charles spaniel, maybe a Jack Russell, or even a lab and have your way with them. I can imagine  shrieking middle aged owners telling me to get you off their little darlings, and looking at all of us in distain and horror. Well that possibility is now aborted, forever, so play to your heart's content Socrates.

I promise, I'll bring you to the dog park a lot. It'll be worth it, after all. Sleep tight, don't let the flee bugs bite, and I'll see you tomorrow! 

POST 4 THE GOOD FORTUNE OF A BAD NAME: A true story with love

We first met Socs  when he was just ten weeks old.  Looking for a Corgi puppy litter we had learned about,  my adult  sons and I drove up to a farm, which we (finally) found at the end of a dirt path: Hemlock Road.  There were four puppies placed in a “playpen” out in the open on this August afternoon.  Three of them were either tan or mostly tan and white; the other one—a black, auburn-brown, and white tricolored jumper with near perfect markings and dark eyes.  It’s true, one of the tan puppies was smaller than rest and had oodles of small-dog charm; there was a  delicate curl of black fur at one corner of her teeny doggy nose, which obviously led to her temporary name “Swirl.” The other “lights” were traditionally colored if not a bit bland, but good puppies, anyone could see that, with names like Katarina and I can’t remember what. 

 Which one of the four did we want? The  young farmer’s wife, clearly in charge of the little brood, inquired. She told us to take our time but said that there had been twice as many puppies available just yesterday; four had already been taken.  I wondered why the one perky tricolored pup was still there, when the original litter totaled eight. Who wouldn’t have picked him?

 "Oh," said the six-year-old dusty-faced, dusty-dressed farmer’s daughter, "you mean 'Bitey?' Why no one picked Bitey yet?”

How stupid of me I thought! They had named him “Bitey.” Said the little girl: “He bites everything!!!He bites everyone, silly. That’s why we call him Bitey!”

A dilemma.

My sons knew I really missed, and  was seeking an emotional replacement for,  Miss Kitty; I had felt sad,  even maudlin since the untimely death  of my loving, little Scottish Fold, who looked like a tiny owl with her folded ears and  who, I convinced myself, wasn’t really a cat—she purred contentedly and continually to my touch, and  she couldn’t get enough of people, the cat who loved human laps, especially mine, and loved licking virgin olive oil, after unscrewing the cap herself;  the cat  who would, by design, push food off counter tops onto the floor to quickly expose the weakness of the packaging.  She especially liked  newly purchased whole rotisserie chickens still hot and enclosed. She deliberately pushed these with her paws and nose until the package met the edge and plummeted onto the floor: rotisserie chicken parts now available, plastic packaging dispensed with. Oh, yes,  and my husband had taught her to sit on command like a dog, and  she licked my nose when I asked her to.

For years, she had been my uncomplicated, uncomplaining companion when I stayed at the cape house by myself all summer. With her I was never alone; with me, neither was she. She was sweet and gentle, better than the best cat one could imagine.  So here I was looking for a ‘Miss Kitty replacement’ of sorts in the form of a puppy; surely little, charming Swirl "filled the bill." And besides, I wanted a female dog, thinking I could recreate the symbiosis I had with Miss Kitty. My family had never had a “girl dog,” but our female cat had been a mightily beloved family member her whole life long.

Enfolded  in the little girl’s arms, the puppy Swirl was already favored. She was light enough, cute enough, gentle enough. It’s your choice mom, my sons said—they knew how much I missed Miss Kitty. You pick the one YOU like, not the one you think we might want. And they went off to find a money machine, (the nearest was 20 minutes away, one way) to meet the "cash only" requirement.

I had a long time to think it over, too long? I had time to hold the puppies, to see which would snuggle  or squirm, which was fearful, which fearless. Who would be my new best friend with fur? I held Swirl for a very long time—but the boys took forever getting back.  Swirl was easy breezy  to hold.  Then there was the tri, who nipped me repeatedly—Bitey--of course.  Unreasonably, I remained undecided,  out on the farm on a  very steamy summer afternoon, sweating, while listening to the six- year–old’s  unending commentary on each. Clearly she liked  the petite  Swirl, with the cute black curved marking on her snout and showed me how it continued under her chin.  The little girl seemed to ask with inquiring eyes, who wouldn’t want Swirl? She would!

My boys finally returned.  “It’s Bitey,” I managed to murmur.   

“You picked Bitey?” The word incredulous characterized their inquiry.

“Bitey,” I said again, hoping I wouldn’t be plagued by post-purchase insanity.  He was a more frisky  pup than I had originally considered  but I perceived him not just outwardly: I thought I sensed an inward,  “I am myself,” kind of self-possessed beauty.  Was there some message I could discern in his eyes when he looked straight at me (between bites)? Did I sense some understanding,  if only for a couple of seconds? Was I imagining this possibility of interspecies “communication?”

Well, I’d go with my gut, AND my logic:  Of course, I thought,  no one would pick the most endearing of them all, the stand out, the smartee, NOT with a name like BITEY they wouldn’t! But was I crazy? Why would I pick a BITEY? Something in me felt rebellious, I guess, and  then too there was my bent for picking the ‘underdog’ (in this case the ’biteydog’).  In him, I saw more than flashing puppy teeth; I reasoned:  He was a little bigger than the others—at least his head was, and his ears were enormous! He had spunk, and a spark composed of promise and innoncence--that Bitey. And perhaps it wasn’t TOO  hard to figure out he was teething already. Who knows when the other puppies might “inherit” his name – when THEY started teething too?

It was the first goal we had as a family concerning our canine addition: Teach Bitey not to bite, switch that out for kisses. On the way home the boys started the lessons, still shocked at my choice.

By nightfall Bitey became Socrates. By then he had my heart. At week’s end, he had even drawn a bit of blood from several us (by accident) in his teething frenzy—and then the bites turned solely to nips, and then the nips were always a mistake followed by a lick…

These days when I put my face in front of Socrates and ask for a kiss, he carefully  gives me one or more in that puppy kind of way, sometimes he puts his cold nose against my cheek and give me a little bump or nudge, and sometimes he offers a little lick—sometimes both. Either way, it’s not sloppy or careless, and to me any way, it’s obvious he wants to. Lots of times, especially when I come home after an hour or several,  he puts on a disarming show of gratefulness, an extended puppy dance. And the longer I’ve been away, the more frenzied and spirited it is—you’d think that a bit of the old Bitey might resurface… once in while there’s an accidental nip, but he’s good really—he can tell the difference, no matter how minute, between my hand and the bone I am holding. If he happens to err, he’s quick to “dogkiss” me afterward.  

“What's in a name?” (R+J-Shakespeare)  Good fortune methinks; thank goodness they named you Bitey—Socs! Now, we’ve got you, and everyone else doesn’t!   Kisses?

POST 3 THE FEET OF BONDING, NO [SIC] NEEDED

Right now I am supposed to be doing work for a graduate course I am taking, and I am keyboarding away... bored, I look down at the rug below and see Socrates sleeping. He is right there under my chair, taking an afternoon nap. His head and front paws are down to my right and the rest of him, apparently, is under the chair on which I am sitting, as he’s not yet long enough to be showing on the other side—maybe this is as big as he’ll get?  I smile and feel good. There’s something that makes me breathe deep (ly) and feel content, knowing he has chosen this spot. He is not cloying; he’s not in my way. At the same time, he hasn’t chosen another more distant spot; he’s not in another corner of the room or somewhere else in the house. No. He chooses to be right at my feet, and sometimes he chooses, when awake, perhaps chewing on one of his “bones,” a desirable spot right ON my feet. His belly rests on my feet, shoed or not, as if he meant to make this clear: I prefer to be near you, right here, as I go about this job I have, this important gnawing assignment of mine.

Socs’ decisions about proximity, sleeping at my feet or being busy right on them, are clearly his own. Not learned, but chosen, I assume because he likes it that way. These “druthers” of his make me feel safe and content too.  This is the life (!)--mutualism (absolutely the most positive form of symbiosis, also known as “win-win”) between a pet and an owner, the genuine give and take and take and give are at the height of everyday living. Two symbionts, with a feeling that’s always there, in the background, but speaking volumes about why we’re together.  Maybe it’s even better than his overt puppy-like-overbearing shows of affection, although I love his nudging snout and little wet tongue too! This isn’t purposeful interaction. It’s just evident—just there when you choose to notice and even when you don’t choose consciously, I think it’s right at the back of your heart*, at the bottom of your breath--in and out. In my case, this too is the essence of corgi puppy and his person loyalty and love. Along with everything else that’s offered, this is the quiet joy of pets and their people. Just straight out real. No worries about doing something right or wrong. There’s no one to impress or feel foolish with. Guileless. Peaceful. Shared being.  Close.

Just being close.  

*”The Back of My Heart” is a country song by Randy Montana (2011) on its way up the country charts at the time of this writing

POST 2 THE ART OF RACING (AROUND THE HOUSE)

One of these days, I'm afraid I’ll wake up and Socrates will have grown out of racing around the rooms, under chairs, taking sharp turns around foot stools and furniture, tunneling though people’s legs, and altogether slaloming around the house at breakneck speed. I hope that morning doesn’t come too soon; in fact, I hope Socrates never stops his racing, racing around--and around--exuding that joie de vivre (French poodles understand). 

Besides, l love egging him on, putting more hurdles in his way (he doesn’t jump over them but finds new and creative ways of getting around them) and altogether getting him to do ever more agile, frantic runs and stops before he’s fairly exhausted, at least for a minute or two,  just before he revs up again. I must remember to get out my camera and record these wild and thrilling performances.   To me, the runs are the essence of his “puppy hood.”

Is he trying to catch my eye, trying to display careless abandon and bravado? Is he silently but persistently showing off? In puppy language, does that translate to something like “Look ma, no hands!”…? Or is he simply showing me what youth is all about? Invigorating, irrational, joyful, fearless, fun…as in: Just forget everything else for now, and let go... If Socrates’ paws could screech--the way car tires do—they would!

POST 1 THE JOY OF CORGI PUPPY

This blog is devoted to my new—summer of 2011—Corgi puppy, whom we named Socrates. Actually it’s a very fitting name because Socs is so smart and because he actually has “white fur socks” on all four paws that go extremely well with his full “body suit” mostly black with cinnamon shaded splashes of color in all the right places including his underside, face, and ears (more about them later or just see photos). For those who know something about the actual Socrates of Ancient Greece, you might agree that this puppy’s name was “meant to be:” when my sons and I went to look at a litter of corgis and found our “pick,” we had to travel to the farm where he was born, located on a dirt path named Hemlock Road.

Long story short, six-month-old Socrates gets a whole blog to himself because he is pure JOY!

Pet owners whose furry (or other type of outer covering) companions give them joy-- as well as nonpet owners who want to “borrow” a pet and feel the joy online--all are welcome here!