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?
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