Addison: A Dog Tale

What do you do when  your days are so full you can hardly get everything done?

Adopt a puppy that needs to be taken out to potty two times a night, and supervised all day.

Meet Addison:

The funny thing about dogs is, five years ago if you asked if I was a dog person I would have said no. . . easily.  Two and half years ago I would have still said no, even though that is when we adopted Charly, our maltese.

I always felt people with dogs were different.  Somehow I pictured their house less orderly and possibly less clean, and I couldn't fathom feeling that emotional about a dog.  This from the girl who grew up on a farm with more dogs and cats and barnyard animals than I could possibly name or even remember.  They weren't my pets, they were just residents of the farm and not the farmhouse.  And I had decided to lead a decidedly different lifestyle, free of the country and the animals.

As a child, the closest I came to claiming a pet was when one of our dogs, whom I don't recall, had a liter of puppies.  I got to pick one for my own and I got to name him.  By this time so many puppies and dogs had come and gone that I named him Generic.  Sad, I know.  And he died a couple weeks later of Parvo. So I didn't have time to get really attached.

Then came Charly.  Rob's grandmother was selling a liter of her dog's puppies and brought them to our house to get more exposure.  A neighborhood full of kids turned our front yard into a constant petting zoo. Charly was the runt.  And he was pretty cute.

But I held strong.  Taking care of a pet is a big responsibility.  I felt the girls should be a little older.  But when Hannah started praying that Charly could come live with us her father caved.  At the time I thought he was just playing the good cop to my bad cop.  He said yes so I would have be the one to say no.  I called his bluff.  If I said yes, he would retract, I was sure of it.  Then HE could be the bad guy.

I was wrong. He wasn't bluffing.  Who knew I was married to a dog lover.  Not me.

And after witnessing the pure joy on the girls' faces I couldn't retract.  Plus photographic possibilities tipped the scale in Charly's favor.

But it wasn't all sunshine and roses after he came to live with us.  He chewed things, he whined at night, he made the playroom his personal potty ground.   I was not a fan.

Two years later I finally started to like him.  He was well behaved and didn't chew things and asked to be let outside to do his business.  And he slept. . . a lot.  I had begun to feel a certain amount of loyalty.  He'd started to grow on me.  It helped that he really loved me too.

But this story isn't just about Charly.  Though part of the idea to get another dog did stem from our failure to socialize Charly with other dogs.  He needed to learn to play nice.

Plus our frequent trips to the free petting zoo, aka humane society, were rather like russian roulette.  Sooner or later we were bound to get hooked by one.  I am just surprised that in the end it was me.  Or at least mostly me.  Because despite my warming to Charly, I still didn't consider myself a dog person.  I merely told myself that since we had a dog it was my obligation to be loyal to him as a part of the family.

But then one day there was the most adorable black and white springer spaniel named Pepper at the pound. He was one year old and I kinda fell for him.  Then Signe literally fell under him.   Apparently they are affectionate dogs.  But we were 20 minutes too late.  Another family had put a hold on him and after 24 hours of impatient waiting on our part they decided to adopt him.  I was mostly relieved.

The seed had been planted though.  Rob started looking at springer spaniels online and came across the NorthWest Springer Spaniel Rescue site.  In early December a posting popped up with a sad tale of struggle and survival that would even make a non-dog person root for the underdog.  And the quest for Addison began.

Of course, back then they called him Petey.

During the early part of December, a cold snap the likes of which these parts don't often see set in and began to make us less acclimated folk bundle up and stay inside, and made me fret about the lovely things I had planted in my yard that were not likely to pull through.  While I struggled to save my plants, Addison's mom struggle to save her new born puppies.  She, a very young roan springer spaniel, was loose in Seattle.  Where she came from and whether she had more than two puppies we'll never know, but when someone found her, she was struggling to move her days old puppies to safety.  She had two puppies with their eyes still closed when they brought them in to the shelter.  One was liver and white (Addie) and one was lemon and white (his brother).  They were quickly put in foster care.

Within 20 minutes of seeing the puppies online Rob had filled out the application.  It took nearly that long to fill out the detailed questionnaire.  One month, two hour long phone interviews, a call to our vet (from the Rescue), and a meeting with the foster parents later. . . and we had been picked as the first choice prospective adoptive family of Addie.

On Saturday he was finally old enough to bring home.

In the past three days we have discovered why they call them springers.  And Charly is not impressed.  But he is warming up, luckily.  I must have blocked out all those puppy moments we had with Charly. . . chewing and hyper pouncing and potty training and nighttime whining. . . it's rather like having a baby. I am quickly being reminded.

The good news is, he is clearly smart and learning quickly.  And the girls adore him.  We do too, but I imagine we'll like him all the better in a few months.  In the interim, it's not like chaos is a stranger at this house.  On that regard he fits right in.

Here Kitty Kit--I Mean Doggie!

Recently our dog Charly became very ill.  After three days with little improvement we took him to the "doggie hospital."  The girls were very concerned.  They drew his blood, put in an IV and ran lots of tests.  

The verdict?

We have a prissy dog. . . and apparently we aren't prissy dog people. 

The vet said it was likely just something he ate (maybe even a funky mushroom that grows in our yard--but probably something Rob gave him and shouldn't have).  Charly's doctor scolded us for buying cheap dog food and allowing him to eat any scraps (again, that would be Rob--he is a sucker for big sad eyes. . .on girls or dogs, apparently).  Then he sent us home with this:

. . .wait. . .we have a DOG right?  Apparently that aspect of his identity is negotiable!  It is true that the neighbor's cat is bigger than our dog, but is size the issue here?  

Size aside, he does allow us to hold him like a baby, he needs regular grooming (another area we fail at--in case you forgot here is a little reminder) and we can't take him in the forest because his white fur gets mucky and full of sticks and stuff.  

But cat food?! Really?!  

. . .did I mention he licks his paws. . .?

A Love-Hate Relationship. . .

It's moments like these that I can't regret getting a puppy. In the last year and a half I have not been his biggest fan. . .and he has not been Signe's biggest fan.

These two crack me up. Their relationship resembles nothing so much as sibling rivalry. I suspect if we had a baby Signe would treat it similarly. She LOVES Charly. Quite physically. He may be four pounds of fluff, but to consider him a stuffed toy to tote around is an insult to his gargantuan pit bull ego. One Signe makes on a daily basis.

Their day starts with a tug of war. . .with her nightgown. . .her blanket. . .her toys. . .her food--this aspect she hates. But that doesn't stop her from chasing him around attempting to hold, carry, and generally smother him in love and affection. He only sees it as smothering.

But in the end you know he loves her when he occasionally sits nicely in her lap and lets himself be pet and squeezed. . .and he licks her cheeks. . .and she giggles uncontrollably. Someone ought to bottle that stuff. That contagious little bubbling laughter would sell like hot cakes.

Irony

Where is the irony in this situation? I asked the girls to go play with their dog. . .Clearly I needed to be more specific. Have you heard of Nintendogs? As my girls stare glassy eyed at their DS screens dressing their digital dogs in bows and doggy hats and playing catch with them their actual dog sits by trying to catch any morsel of attention. Next time I guess I need to say, "Go play with Charly."

Haircuts and Humiliation. . .

If you have read many of my posts you have seen a picture or two of our dog, Charly. I have to admit that in the year since we adopted him I have not been his biggest fan. I was conned into purchasing him by a weepy seven year old and her smitten father. Not to mention the pressure I was getting from the neighbor girl (who wanted to buy his sister) and her smitten father. And I cannot deny that at eight weeks old, he was certainly darling. . .

But somehow promises to play and care for him and clean up his poop have long since been forgotten and I am left with a third child, essentially. Four, actually, if you count the big one. And even though I clean up after my girls constantly, I think the dog makes just as many messes with his toys . . .









And he chews everything in sight--still, even though he is now one and no longer a puppy. . .










And I feel a little bad about the fact that since I am the only one who scolds him he generally assumes that if I call him he is in trouble. Mind you, I have never beaten my dog, and I am generally very nice to him. I even take him on walks and give him treats when he is good and play games with him when the children--the same children that promised to love and care for him and clean up his poop--neglect him. But still, if I approach him suddenly, or not suddenly for that matter, he tends to lay on his back and wet himself. It's disgraceful really, and yet another thing I must clean up.

But all those things aside, I harbor no ill will toward this dog of ours. As part of our family he deserves our loyalty and love. Which is why I must say that no one, not even Charly on his worst day, deserves to be left looking like this for a week . . .
And I have to say this picture does not really capture the caught-in-lawnmower appearance of the haircut gone awry that Charly is currently sporting! This is not the first time we have cut Charly's hair ourselves--I say we but this time it was Rob. I claim no part in this! And what makes it truly awful is not how short he cut him, but he did not finish. . .and then went out of town for the week! Even Charly knows that something is not right. He keeps bending over and licking his tail and his naked little back! Rob will be home today, so hopefully next time Charly is caught on camera he will be sporting a more fashionable do, and not this stricken expression that so clearly states "How could you?"