The Puppy Diaries: Raising a Dog Named Scout (15 page)

Read The Puppy Diaries: Raising a Dog Named Scout Online

Authors: Jill Abramson

BOOK: The Puppy Diaries: Raising a Dog Named Scout
5.45Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
As for the physical conformation that set the benchmark for judging the shows in which Donna’s dogs often competed, Donna said that Scout was a bit high in the back, and her feet were a little “eastiewestie,” or too far turned out. Otherwise, Donna declared that her little Cindy Lou had grown up to be a very pretty girl. She was happy to hear that we had worked so hard to train her, and that we were using a clicker and mostly following the precepts of the positive method.
After saying good-bye to Donna, Henry packed Scout into the car. From what he could tell, this reunion with her blood family had meant no more to Scout than any other visit with a human who owned dogs. She slept most of the way back to our house in Connecticut, which is exactly what she had done during that first trip home as a new pup. But the road we had traveled since then was a lot longer than the 125 miles that separated Donna’s house from ours.
 
 
Donna’s expert assessment of Scout’s appearance may have quashed any lingering thoughts about entering
Scout in high-powered competitions, but it didn’t prevent us from entering her in an annual event in our Connecticut town called the Parade of Pooches. The show takes place on our town green and is a completely unofficial, just-for-fun competition. It only resembles the real Westminster show—held each year at Madison Square Garden and the pinnacle of U.S. dog shows—in that the dogs are judged by breed and given awards. And there is no Best in Show award, the crown jewel of Westminster and the title of the very funny Christopher Guest movie that spoofs the affair.
In February, I had attended the real Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show, which was established in 1877 and is the second-longest continuously held sporting event in the United States. Henry and I have always been fans of the show, which is broadcast on cable television each year. We especially love it when the handlers—who invariably dress in starchy British clothes—look like the dogs they are showing. In the past, we had often watched the show with Buddy wedged between us on our bed. This year, even though I had tickets, Henry preferred to watch the show with Scout from home, so I went with a friend.
To my eye, the show seemed pretty true to the movie (or perhaps vice versa), complete with stressedout owners madly blow-drying their dog’s fur in the
so-called benching area off the floor where the judging rings were. To assist the reporters covering the show, the show’s organizers provided hourly briefings on the dogs—more than 2,500 of them—who were the stars of the competition. Meanwhile, journalists were invited to sessions with representatives from all of the major pet supply and pet food companies, all of whom were frantically trying to attract media coverage for their latest products. (Pedigree, a major sponsor of the show, tried unsuccessfully to persuade me to attend a tutorial on its latest, supposedly healthier brand of dry food.)
As with most aspects of dog life, the Westminster show has become a combat zone. Not only are the owners fiercely competitive, but in recent years a conflict has broken out between the American Kennel Club—the primary registry of purebred dog pedigrees in the United States and a promoter of the show—and its numerous critics. These critics argue that by putting a premium on dogs’ appearances, the AKC encourages unhealthy breeding techniques, such as mating two dogs with champion traits who are too closely related. The critics also claim that other characteristics—a dog’s instinct for performing a specific sort of work, for instance—are not prized sufficiently. Recently some owners have gone so far as to boycott the AKC and the Westminster show.
I timed my visit to the show so that I could see the
Best in Breed judging of the golden retrievers. (All the competing goldens, of which there were several dozen, were the much deeper, honey color that is the classic standard for the breed.) My first stop was the benching area backstage, where giant poodles in hair curlers and other dogs of just about every breed primped for their moment in the ring. Next I moved up to the stands and took a seat near a number of the owners’ families, some of whom had traveled from as far as California and had been competing in dog shows every weekend for the past year.
When it came time for the goldens to compete, I watched the dogs and their handlers with particular interest. The male and female dogs were judged separately, and all were put through their paces briskly and without a lot of obvious grandstanding. I couldn’t help but notice that not a single one of the dogs pulled when their handlers strutted before the judges. Inevitably, perhaps, I tried to imagine Scout joining the goldens vying for a prize, but I got no farther than conjuring a vision of Scout wildly pulling me past the judges and right out of the Garden.
 
 
I enjoyed my visit to the Westminster show, and it made me look forward to our show in Connecticut.
Diane Abbott, who would serve as one of the judges, assured me that it was nothing like the extravaganza in New York; she also convinced me that Scout would enjoy it and that it was impossible to be disgraced. Diane told me that just about every dog won a ribbon, which put me in mind of those long-ago days when Cornelia and Will, like almost every other child, had come home at the end of the school year with some kind of trophy.
The morning of the show, Scout was excited by our vigorous brushing of her fur, and I even brushed her teeth for the occasion. As we approached our town’s green, she began pulling with nearly all her strength when she saw the great number of dogs gathering there. And she was ecstatic when she saw Diane, who promptly gave her a dog biscuit from the registration table.
About a dozen other dogs had been entered in the golden retriever category, but Scout was the only platinum blonde. Scout was thrilled to be measured and assessed by the volunteer judges, and she gave her competitors a good sniff, as if to size them up. When one of the judges passed us, he looked at Scout and said, “Oh, she’s a beauty.” Helpless with pride, I beamed.
At the real Westminster show, dogs perform for the judges in four separate rings simultaneously. Here, the breeds are judged in sequence as they walk around our makeshift ring. This year, the goldens didn’t get their chance until near the end, and soon Scout became restless, barking and pulling. Diane came over to distract her and play, and finally it was our turn to walk in a circle in front of the judges.
Scout at the Parade of Pooches show
I led Scout on the walk. She proudly strutted as we moved around the ring—and to my amazement she didn’t pull on her leash. I was absurdly grateful for this reprieve, and the experience brought back vivid memories of watching my children in school musical productions. Listening to them rehearse was often painful, but their performances, even when my heart was in my throat, were usually splendid.
When the results of the Best in Breed competition were announced, we were thrilled. When judged against her fellow goldens, Scout won a coveted blue ribbon for having “the longest ears”—a category, needless to say, that isn’t included at the real Westminster show. I had never noticed that Scout’s ears were longer than any other golden’s, but we would take victory however it came. When the show was over, we packed Scout and her ribbon into the back of our car; when we got home, we looked for the ribbon but found only a few telltale bits of shiny blue thread. She had eaten it.
 
 
Scout’s actual birthday was April 9. Henry and I agreed that there was no question about the appropriate venue for our celebration: the farm. Fortunately, the weather that day was perfect, still brisk but brilliantly sunny. In a few weeks, the gardeners would be back at the farm tending their bulbs, vegetables, and herbs, and we would have to make the garden areas off-limits again. But for now, Scout and her pals still had the run of the place.
We had told other Breakfast Club walkers about Scout’s big day, and we also called Barbara Pearce and asked her to bring her Lab, Xena, who was almost exactly Scout’s age. Henry, Scout, and I arrived a bit early, and Barbara pulled in a few minutes later. Scout got excited the moment she caught sight of Barbara’s car, and when the car came to a stop I let her bound over to greet Xena. They immediately began wrestling and running after each other, and Barbara, Henry, and I laughed as we watched their joyous reunion. We took photographs, too, but Scout and Xena moved so quickly that it was almost impossible to get a decent picture.
Barbara and I marveled over how far both of our dogs had come since first meeting in Marian’s backyard as tiny, teething pups. Less than a year ago, they were little bundles of fur falling over their own paws as they chased each other. And it was at Marian’s that Scout had first experienced the pleasures of water when she splashed about in a plastic baby pool, one that was now far too small to hold her.
Scout, Xena, and the birthday cookie
Soon Marian and Clyde arrived with Cyon and Bunny, Scout’s truest and most constant companions. Scout was so busy chasing Xena that at first she barely took time out to say hello to her old friends. But I was pleasantly surprised when Scout and Xena responded to my call, stopped running around, and then sat obediently while waiting for me to share a treat with them. To mark Scout’s birthday, I had purchased a yogurt-frosted, heart-shaped dog cookie from the local pet store. I split the cookie in half, and in no time the two dogs wolfed it down.
A few minutes later, Lee Gibson pulled into the farm’s parking lot. I was eager for Lee to join Scout’s birthday celebration because she had been so helpful with Scout’s training.
As Lee approached us, I saw something moving at her heel. For a second I thought a rabbit was walking next to her, but then I realized that it was actually a brand-new puppy. It was another German shepherd, but he was so young that he was all ears and paws. Lee told us that his name was Caleb, and that this one was hers to keep.
Caleb the puppy
As I gave Lee a hug and said hello, I saw that she had circles under her eyes. I also noticed that she was a bit wary when Scout and Xena, now such big girls, raced over to sniff Caleb and check out the new kid on the block. This was me a year ago, bone-tired and worrying over every new experience that came Scout’s way.
Now, as Scout approached Caleb, she made a gentle bow, her front paws sticking out in front of her. It was a dog’s invitation to play, a universal gesture that is performed countless times each day all over the world. And as Caleb accepted the invitation and cavorted with Scout, the cycle began anew.
 
 
When I turned fifty, my friend Jane Mayer gave me the perfect gift. Jane works for the
New Yorker
, and in the magazine’s archives she found a photograph of one of my favorite writers, E. B. White, taken at his classic Maine farmhouse. White, then almost eighty, was cradling Susy, his beloved Westie, one of the last in a long line of devoted canine companions. Buddy was still very much alive when I received that photo, and it delighted me to know that the Westie breed connected me to the author of
Charlotte’s Web
and some of journalism’s finest essays. In one of those essays, in fact, White dispensed the wisest comment about raising a puppy I have ever come across: “A really companionable
and indispensable dog is an accident of nature. You can’t get it by breeding for it, and you can’t buy it with money. It just happens along.”
When Scout came into my life, an indispensable dog did just happen along. It wasn’t the clickers or puppy kindergarten or feeding her the right meals that made her such a fine companion. More than anything else, it was the passage of time, and the inevitable calming process that occurred as Scout aged. Almost as important was the change in Henry and me: we came to understand that everything we do is more fun and interesting when Scout is by our side.
Whether contentedly snoozing while we watch UConn’s basketball team snatch a victory from Arizona, or sniffing at some daffodils as they poke out of the hard winter soil near the Hudson River, Scout has become essential to our daily lives. Moreover, what we choose to do with an hour or an afternoon often mirrors what she most enjoys. When she wants to engage in a game of chase or keep-away or go for a brisk walk, so do we. And no matter what we do, Scout’s fundamental sweetness and exuberance make the experience joyful. She is almost always in a state of delight, unlike so much of the world that I help capture each day for readers of the
New York Times
.
Which is not to say that Scout doesn’t have an occasional bad moment or misbehave. Every once in a while, for instance, her face will appear above the table line with a hopeful expression. And she still pulls on her leash, though not as savagely. But she has long since conquered her fear of German shepherds, and not long ago she picked Caleb as her favorite walking companion. The happy accidents of nature continue.
 
 
Looking back on our first year with Scout, I am amazed by how quickly it passed. The experience of bringing this whirlwind of untamed energy into our lives was so intense and involving that I sometimes felt as if the puppy months would kill us. Like most owners, we worried about everything, from Scout’s constant chewing to her fussy eating to her sudden illness. Then, in the blink of an eye, she was fully grown and fully attached to us. And just as our love for her grew to be almost boundless, she became unfailingly loyal and perceptive about our needs and desires.
This almost ineffable transference fascinated me from the start, and it was the main reason I decided to chronicle Scout’s first year. I knew that Henry and I enjoyed nearly ideal circumstances, with the time,
space, and means to dote on a dog. But as one half of a two-career couple in late middle age, I also knew that some of the stresses we were feeling as new puppy owners were universal, as was the humor inherent in the experience. After all, no matter who you are or what you do for a living, it is invariably humbling to try to persuade a puppy to do your bidding.
Even before Scout arrived, I thought it might be fun to share some of my experiences and draw on the response of the
Times
’s readers. I did so by writing a series of columns for the newspaper’s Web site. My hope was that those who followed the column would become engaged by our imperfect efforts to raise a puppy and offer copious advice, which they did. I also asked readers to send in photos of their own pups, an invitation that attracted such an avalanche of snapshots that at one point the paper’s Web site crashed.
Because I have dedicated much of my career in journalism to editing and writing serious investigative stories, some of my readers—and a few of my friends as well—found it strange that I was publicly sharing my nervousness over Scout’s first day of puppy kindergarten or my persistent sadness over the loss of Buddy. But as I continued writing the column and providing updates on Scout’s adventures, I found a natural story emerging, one that connected me to plenty
of other
Times
readers who, like me, were simply crazy about their dogs.
 
 
Almost from the beginning, Scout seemed to accept that my demanding job meant she would rarely receive my undivided attention. She learned, for instance, that although weekend mornings were an apparently languid time, they were in fact dedicated to a longer and even closer reading of the
Times
, page by page and section by section. Though this ritual required that she wait until later than usual to go to the farm or the dog run, she was never impatient. Reflecting on this one day, I realized that Scout didn’t need me to spend all my time focused on her. Instead, what she most wanted was my unwavering love.
This, I came to understand, was my test. During her first year with us, Scout had passed
her
test: she had learned how to be a good dog and become a loving companion. But as her second year with us began, I was keeping a guilty secret, which was that sometimes I still longed for Buddy. The essential question remained: could I ever give my whole heart to Scout?
A first, partial answer came in the summer of 2010. More than three years had passed since my terrible accident in Times Square, and I had almost fully
recovered from my injuries. I felt so confident that I could meet just about any physical challenge—or at least any challenge appropriate for a woman my age—that I decided to take a break from Scout and accompany Henry and his sister, Elisabeth, on a trip to Yellowstone National Park. Elisabeth loved to hike, and I persuaded her to tackle some fairly demanding trails with Henry, a guide, and me.
We enjoyed three days of excellent hiking, but on the last day of our visit, Henry was suffering from altitude sickness and so decided to take it easy. Still game, Elisabeth and I got our guide, Jeff, to take us on a climb to Specimen Ridge, one of the most scenic places in the park. The hike was about seven miles up and back, which would be difficult but not beyond my capacity—or so I thought.
Jeff was a bit worried that we might come across one or more bears, especially since two people had died earlier in the summer after a horrifying encounter with grizzlies. He reassured us by bringing along some bear spray, and the climb up the ridge proved to be no problem. Near the top, we passed a stunningly beautiful family of elks, and when we reached the summit I lay flat on the ground and looked up at the sun. “I can die happy now,” I said to Jeff.
Famous last words. About halfway down the mountain, I slipped on scree and tumbled a hundred
feet down a steep slope. My head must have hit something in the fall, and I was knocked unconscious. Elisabeth, with bear spray in hand, slid down to me while Jeff ran for help, which arrived in about twenty-five minutes. By then I was conscious, but my face was a mass of cuts and bruises, my left arm was broken in two places, and one of my vertebrae was cracked. I had to be airlifted to a hospital in Bozeman, Montana, where surgeons, once again, reassembled my bones with titanium.
I felt like a total idiot, although my doctors assured me that such falls are fairly common in the park. When they finally cleared me to fly back to New York, Henry and I both worried that our exuberant puppy would jump on me and reinjure my arm and back. But we had both missed Scout terribly on our longer-than-expected trip, and I couldn’t wait to see her, whatever the risk.
When Henry opened our front door, Scout didn’t bound over to us. She didn’t even have a toy in her mouth. Happily and calmly, she came to greet us and then waited for Henry and me to hug and pat her. When I sat down on our living room couch, she immediately lay at my feet. She stayed there for hours and got up only to follow me to the kitchen or bathroom.
For the next week, that was our routine. I was the
patient on pain medication, but Scout behaved as if she were on Valium. She was curious about the brace and bandage on my arm, but she never even jostled me. Other than going for walks with Henry, Cornelia, or Will, she spent all her energy protecting and guarding me. Whenever I set myself up on the couch, she would lie down a couple of feet away. When I moved to our bedroom, she would take up a position at the foot of the bed.
During my convalescence, Scout’s breathing and the sight of her white back rising and falling made me feel cozy and safe. About ten days after returning home, I was at last well enough to take her out for a walk. This time, there was absolutely no pulling. Scout seemed to know that I needed her to behave, and she rose to the occasion valiantly. I have no doubt that I recovered from these new injuries more quickly because of her.
 
 
I had never felt closer to Scout than after my accident in Yellowstone, and that remained true throughout the fall. I won’t say that I stopped thinking about Buddy altogether, but Scout proved to be such a loving and generous companion that my attachment to her grew even stronger.
That Christmas we were buried in snow, as one of the hardest winters in history descended on New York and Connecticut. Then Henry left for California on a business trip, leaving Scout and me alone in our apartment. Within a day or two, we developed a bad case of cabin fever and so decided to go on an extended walk.
It was a freezing Sunday—the temperature was below ten degrees—but at least the sun was shining. Since the funky dog run was iced over and grimy, I didn’t want to begin our walk by taking Scout there. Instead, I attached her leash and we began walking uptown.
One of Buddy’s favorite places in New York City was Washington Square Park, with its famous archway and two dog runs, one reserved for small dogs weighing less than twenty-five pounds and another for larger breeds. At twenty-two pounds, Buddy was the big man on campus in the park’s small run, and he loved strutting around the place as if he owned it. But the park was about a mile and a half from our loft, so taking Buddy there required extra time and energy. In fact, when we visited the park near the end of his life, I often had to carry Buddy part of the way home because he was dragging and wheezing so badly.
For some reason—actually, I knew the reason all too well—I hadn’t been back to the Washington
Square dog runs since Buddy’s death almost four years earlier. But now, on this bitterly cold afternoon, it seemed like just the right moment to go. Though Scout certainly wouldn’t be allowed in the small dog run, I thought she might enjoy the larger area.
The trip north through the wintry city was lovely. Several people stopped to admire Scout, including a little girl who asked if she could pet her. “She’s so bee—u—tiful,” the little girl chimed. But as we approached Washington Square and then passed by the small dog run, I couldn’t help but feel melancholy.
Scout entered the big dog run warily. A yellow Lab came over and gave her a half hearted sniff before moving on to play with other friends. A pack of hounds chased one another, and Scout watched them enviously. Most of the dogs seemed to know each other well and none showed much interest in her. As Scout padded around in the snow and tried to make friends, I sat on a bench and felt sad for her.
Before long, though, a bundled-up man in a black down parka entered the dog run with a white golden retriever that looked like Scout’s identical twin. This dog—named Daisy, as I quickly learned—bounded right over to Scout, who immediately went into her bow position. In an instant, the two were off, jumping up toward each other, wrestling and chasing. Like Scout, Daisy was about a year and a half old. She had
been born in Canada and now weighed seventy-five pounds.
Daisy’s owner, a gregarious fellow named Jeff, introduced himself and sat down to share my bench. For the next half hour, while the two dogs made friends, Jeff and I had an animated conversation about the remarkable qualities of English golden retrievers. “They really love playing with their own kind,” Jeff observed. Before Daisy, he had had two other goldens. The last one had lived to fourteen, a ripe old age for a large, sporting breed. When I told Jeff that we had had a terrier before Scout, he responded, “Well, now you know just how wonderful goldens are.”
And I did. I also knew that Henry and I could not have asked for a friendlier, more loving, or more enthusiastic dog. To complete our voyage through the perils of late middle age, we needed a dog exactly like Scout. No, not a dog
like
her—we needed Scout and only Scout. Sitting in Washington Square Park with freezing toes on one of the coldest afternoons of the year, I suddenly felt warmer than I had in weeks. I had not forgotten Buddy, but he was now the dog that had been my ideal companion for a different, earlier time. Watching Scout play in the snow with her seeming twin, I knew that I had finally passed
my
test: I had completely given my heart to her.
It was time to turn toward home. I had a happy,
tired dog, and at the moment I couldn’t imagine feeling any more fortunate. Once again I thought of E. B. White, who was not only a superb writer but a truly wise man. He understood that dogs made his life better, and he acknowledged their gift whenever he wrote about the smart collie of his youth, the eccentric dachshunds that meant so much to him during his middle years, and Susy the Westie, who kept him company when he was old and living alone. Even after reaching an age when he knew the next pup he purchased would probably outlive him, there he was with a dog in his arms. I hoped this would be true of my life, too, from irascible Buddy to vulnerable Dinah to loopy Scout—and, perhaps, to the puppies that would come after.

Other books

Dirty Bad Wrong by Jade West
Wallace at Bay by Alexander Wilson
Unbelievable by Sherry Gammon
Un anillo alrededor del Sol by Clifford D. Simak
Tokyo Underworld by Robert Whiting
The Fun Factory by Chris England
Shikasta by Doris Lessing
Alphas by Mathew Rodrick
The Best of Connie Willis by Connie Willis