The Puppy Diaries: Raising a Dog Named Scout (3 page)
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Authors: Jill Abramson
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As we completed Donna’s application, I could feel my worries about getting a new dog melting away.
English golden retrievers have so many good characteristics: not only are they gorgeous dogs that love the outdoors; they are loyal, smart, and sweet-tempered. I also told myself that after meeting Donna, we could always change our minds. Or at least we could right up to the moment when we actually made contact with a real puppy. One lick on the face and I knew we would instantly be past the point of no return.
English golden retrievers have so many good characteristics: not only are they gorgeous dogs that love the outdoors; they are loyal, smart, and sweet-tempered. I also told myself that after meeting Donna, we could always change our minds. Or at least we could right up to the moment when we actually made contact with a real puppy. One lick on the face and I knew we would instantly be past the point of no return.
Donna accepted our application, but she wanted to interview us in person. So in May 2009, seven weeks after the new litter of English goldens was born, Henry and I drove from our house in Connecticut to Thistledown Golden Retrievers.
During the drive, Henry cruelly informed me that he was replacing me as pack leader because I am neither calm nor assertive, the qualities required by Cesar Millan, the famous dog behavior specialist. (We had watched Millan’s television show,
Dog Whisperer,
on the eve of our journey.) There would be no human food prepared for our new dog (good-bye, grilled chicken). This dog, unlike the stubborn Buddy, was going to be well trained. “You are wonderful, but you don’t know how to be firm,” Henry said as we
drove up I-95. “When Buddy would pull the leash so hard that your arm was on the verge of detaching, you’d giggle and say, ‘Buddy, no,’ and let him keep going.”
Dog Whisperer,
on the eve of our journey.) There would be no human food prepared for our new dog (good-bye, grilled chicken). This dog, unlike the stubborn Buddy, was going to be well trained. “You are wonderful, but you don’t know how to be firm,” Henry said as we
drove up I-95. “When Buddy would pull the leash so hard that your arm was on the verge of detaching, you’d giggle and say, ‘Buddy, no,’ and let him keep going.”
Henry’s assessment was harsh but fair. Although I could be tough and hold the line as a parent and as an editor at the
Times
, I was a pushover with Buddy. In my defense, we had both been so busy with the kids and work that we simply weren’t able to devote the time needed to train Buddy properly.
Times
, I was a pushover with Buddy. In my defense, we had both been so busy with the kids and work that we simply weren’t able to devote the time needed to train Buddy properly.
Two hours after setting out, we arrived at Thistledown. We had expected Donna Cutler to look like a Scottish noblewoman, or at least one of those tweedy, stout women who show their dogs at the annual Westminster Dog Show. Instead, the woman who met us at the door was trim, with medium-brown hair, sharp features, and a friendly but down-to-business demeanor. Donna told us that she had just returned from showing one of her dogs in a competition in Canada. She competed in many shows up north, where the English golden retriever—with its unusual color, chunky head, and thick torso—is much admired.
Donna, who was then in her late forties, was still dressed in the pants suit she’d worn during the competition. We, by contrast, were in shorts and sneakers, hoping to emphasize our vigor and sportiness. As
Donna led us to the back of her house—which had big fenced-in pens for the adult dogs and another outside area for puppies—I was nervous and fearing rejection. (Later we learned that Donna had turned down a potential customer only twice. One was a gent who refused to commit to enclosing his yard so the puppy would be safe. The other was a woman in Donna’s town who kept brushing the hairs off her coat during the first puppy visit.)
Donna led us to the back of her house—which had big fenced-in pens for the adult dogs and another outside area for puppies—I was nervous and fearing rejection. (Later we learned that Donna had turned down a potential customer only twice. One was a gent who refused to commit to enclosing his yard so the puppy would be safe. The other was a woman in Donna’s town who kept brushing the hairs off her coat during the first puppy visit.)
No doubt to put us at ease, Donna told us a bit about herself. She had grown up in Dedham, Massachusetts, where her family had pets of every kind, including wild baby rabbits, stray cats, and a bantam rooster that lived in the house so it wouldn’t wake up the neighbors. But the family had only one dog, a pug that belonged to her grandmother. This pug, Donna told us, was simply “not fun.” Moreover, pugs are small, and Donna wanted a big dog. For weeks, she and her sister saved up their allowance, and then one day they biked into town and bought a dog collar and a leash. Several times that summer, they rounded up a big dog that had been wandering around town, as dogs did back then. The two girls would drag it home to the garage and remove the collar and leash so as not to give away their gambit. Then they would go into the house and exclaim to their parents that a dog had followed them home. But each time, as soon as the garage door was opened for an inspection, the pooch would bolt out of the yard and beat it back to town.
Tess and her litter of puppies, with Scout on the side
Donna had been breeding goldens for years, and the puppies’ parents, grandparents, uncles, aunts, and great-grandparents still lived on the premises. (This is one of the signs of a reputable breeder, and most experts advise checking out the parents of a puppy for temperament, looks, and health history.) After we’d chatted for a while, she showed us around her yard. On the right, there was an area cordoned off by knee-high portable fences where Tess, the mother of the new litter, was lying down surrounded by her progeny. The nine puppies were not yet completely weaned and were the cutest little fur balls I had ever seen.
Donna explained that the puppies were becoming socialized by romping with one another under their mother’s watchful eye. Once in a while, one pup would squeal when a brother or sister nipped an ear too hard. One of the most important things new puppies learn is how to moderate their bites. These pups already had their set of twenty-eight baby teeth, which were like sharp little razors.
There were four females in the litter, and I asked Donna if she had a particular one in mind for us. She said that because our life was split between the country and the city, she thought the smallest female might be best. But her tone when she answered was noncommittal, probably because she hadn’t had a chance to observe us with the puppies. No seal of approval yet.
Scout under the green chair
One of Donna’s favorites in the litter was a tiny female she called Cindy Lou, named after the smallest denizen of Dr. Seuss’s Whoville in
How the Grinch Stole Christmas
. The Seuss character had a yellow streak in her hair, and so did this puppy. We later learned that Donna also saw in this pup the kind of “attitude” that she believed was well suited for life in the big city.
How the Grinch Stole Christmas
. The Seuss character had a yellow streak in her hair, and so did this puppy. We later learned that Donna also saw in this pup the kind of “attitude” that she believed was well suited for life in the big city.
I looked more closely at Cindy Lou. She was tiny, with sleepy eyes, and as some of her brothers and sisters nursed, she hovered under a green plastic chair. That worried me a little. Was this pup too shy?
“It’s okay to pick them up,” Donna told us. I cradled the little one in my lap. I was tempted to bring her up to my nose and take in the wonderful smell that all new puppies have; instead, since I knew that very young dogs absorb every new experience primarily through their noses, I let her get a good whiff of me.
Soon all the puppies, including this little one, perked up and wanted to play. Henry jumped into the pen and let them chase his heels. All of the pups had a different color ribbon around their necks so Donna could keep track of who was who.
Henry and the puppies
Tess, the mother, watched all this from a few yards away. She was a blond beauty who when she was younger was a potential champion. But one day, while Donna was in Wyoming on a girls’ weekend, a stick had snapped back and sliced Tess’s eye, which couldn’t be saved by a veterinarian. Still, even with the closed, missing eye, she was a knockout.
Donna took us to the adult dog area to meet the father of the pups, a big boy named Patrick who had won a championship in Austria. Aside from his good looks and fluid movement—a sort of sashay that suggested powerful legs—Patrick was chosen to be this litter’s father for his even temperament, a trait we hoped all the puppies had inherited. Donna also provided us health certificates showing that Tess and Patrick had been checked repeatedly for hip and elbow dysplasia but exhibited no signs of it.
After visiting with Donna and her dogs for two hours, we felt that we were beginning to trespass on our hostess’s time. Before we left, Donna put tiny Cindy Lou and one other female pup in an indoor area so we (and, presumably, she) could be sure.
“So have you thought about a name?” Donna asked. (Clearly a hopeful sign!)
Yes, we had. Actually, Henry had been disqualified in the name-the-dog contest, because when I was pregnant the first time he had briefly considered giving
Cornelia the name Jemima. Two years later, Will almost became Ichabod. (Henry likes the old-fashioned names from his Puritan family tree. “If we don’t use those names, who will?” he would ask, indirectly answering his own question.) But after frantic consultations with Cornelia and Will, we had decided on the name Scout after the spunky little girl in Harper Lee’s
To Kill a Mockingbird
.
Cornelia the name Jemima. Two years later, Will almost became Ichabod. (Henry likes the old-fashioned names from his Puritan family tree. “If we don’t use those names, who will?” he would ask, indirectly answering his own question.) But after frantic consultations with Cornelia and Will, we had decided on the name Scout after the spunky little girl in Harper Lee’s
To Kill a Mockingbird
.
“Well, Scout can’t come home with you for two weeks,” Donna said, giving us a date and time to come retrieve our retriever.
We still weren’t sure which puppy she meant. But as we walked back to the car, the shock of Donna’s last words sank in. We had passed.
On the ride home, I kept thinking about the tiny puppy with the slightly worried expression. And I was slightly worried myself. While watching Donna’s litter of puppies, memories of Buddy as a new puppy had flooded my mind. I still wasn’t sure whether my heart was ready to replace him.
In June, when she was nine weeks old, Cindy Lou—aka Scout—was finally ready to join our family.
Remembering how convenient it was to have a backyard for Buddy’s early housebreaking, we had decided to have Scout spend her first weeks with us at our home in Connecticut, where we usually spend weekends and part of the summer. An antique colonial—it was built in the 1700s—the house is on a quiet street with an ample lawn. Although both of us usually work in New York City during the week, we had adjusted our schedules so Scout could begin life as a country girl. Manhattan is easily reachable by train, and I planned to spend three days out of every week in
Connecticut as often as possible. Meanwhile, Henry could work from Connecticut during the summer and had in any case cleared his schedule of just about everything except puppy training.
Connecticut as often as possible. Meanwhile, Henry could work from Connecticut during the summer and had in any case cleared his schedule of just about everything except puppy training.
While waiting for Scout’s homecoming, we had spent a small fortune at Petco, one of the national pet supply chains. We needed a gate to close off our open and now rugless kitchen and family room area. Since Scout would be growing fast, we bought a giant bag of the same kibble that Donna had been feeding her, Purina Pro Plan for dogs with sensitive skin and stomachs. We also purchased a crate where she would sleep.
The aisles of every Petco, a company with an annual revenue of two billion dollars, are jammed with all manner of products, many aimed at humanizing dogs to an almost ridiculous extent, including five different models of puppy strollers, in colors like mango and sage. The sales associates refer to dog owners as “pet parents,” which jibes with the times, as do the chain’s other policies. Dogs are allowed inside the stores so they can shop with their parents, and Petco also offers a popular pet adoption service. The same Yuppie values that drove the explosive growth of designer products for infants, such as four-hundred-dollar Perego strollers and one-hundred-dollar ergonomic baby carriers, have now been transferred to pets. When Cornelia
and Will were young, Henry and I didn’t have the money to succumb to the marketing of these upscale baby products. But now we are empty nesters with a lot more disposable income.
and Will were young, Henry and I didn’t have the money to succumb to the marketing of these upscale baby products. But now we are empty nesters with a lot more disposable income.
Dog food, which used to come in two options, dry or wet, is now a cornucopia of choice, including special formulas for sensitive skin and stomachs and much higher-priced bags bearing “natural” and “organic” labels. Having edited stories about dubious health claims for expensive “organic” food for humans, I was skeptical upon seeing the same marketing techniques used by the seventeen-billion-dollar pet food business.
In Manhattan, I had visited several high-end pet boutiques, including one called Canine Caviar that sells thirty-dollar bags of “holistic” kibble. (There are also vegetarian, vegan, and kosher versions.) A few of our friends feed their dogs only raw food, another new dog food craze. And I also knew that some dog experts insist that it is healthier for dogs to eat only freshly cooked food. How could I possibly navigate this maze of options?
I consulted Marion Nestle, the author of several excellent books on human and pet food politics, including
Feed Your Pet Right
. Dr. Nestle believes that many of these exotic dog food formulas are just plain silly. She said that we should look for products labeled
“complete and balanced,” which indicate that they meet the nutritional guidelines for cats and dogs listed by the Association of American Feed Control Officials. Dr. Nestle told me that this organization—in conjunction with the Food and Drug Administration, state officials, and the animal feed industry—had developed pretty reliable regulations for pet foods. And she assured me that most of the commercial brands with these labels sold in supermarkets are fine for dogs, since almost all dog foods are made from the by-products of human food production. Paying attention to the basic ingredients is also advisable, she said.
Feed Your Pet Right
. Dr. Nestle believes that many of these exotic dog food formulas are just plain silly. She said that we should look for products labeled
“complete and balanced,” which indicate that they meet the nutritional guidelines for cats and dogs listed by the Association of American Feed Control Officials. Dr. Nestle told me that this organization—in conjunction with the Food and Drug Administration, state officials, and the animal feed industry—had developed pretty reliable regulations for pet foods. And she assured me that most of the commercial brands with these labels sold in supermarkets are fine for dogs, since almost all dog foods are made from the by-products of human food production. Paying attention to the basic ingredients is also advisable, she said.
It seems that almost every aspect of dog ownership has fierce, partisan battles lurking just below the surface. Perhaps the most contentious issue is whether a would-be dog owner should get a new dog through pet rescue and adoption or from a breeder. Upon hearing that Henry and I were getting a purebred puppy, several of our friends reacted as if we were buying a Hummer and thus doing something fundamentally bad for society. Cornelia had volunteered at a local animal shelter in Virginia, and we all understood that many dogs needed to be rescued and adopted. The horrified reactions seemed extreme.
Even dog toys provoke raging debates. We planned to put one of Cornelia’s old stuffed animals in the crate to keep Scout company, fearing that she would
be lonely once she was separated from her littermates. But nowadays, we were told, these are considered taboo because the synthetic stuffing could harm dogs if swallowed. Petco now offers flat plush toys without stuffing, but they look about as fun and reassuring as paper bags.
be lonely once she was separated from her littermates. But nowadays, we were told, these are considered taboo because the synthetic stuffing could harm dogs if swallowed. Petco now offers flat plush toys without stuffing, but they look about as fun and reassuring as paper bags.
I tried to resist both the specious advice and the clever marketing ploys, but I wasn’t entirely successful. During our shopping spree at Petco, I discovered that I liked the smell of Halo dog shampoo, which costs eighteen dollars for a sixteen-ounce bottle—a lot more than I pay for my own shampoo. While we stuffed our bags into the car that morning, I was still trying to figure out how our tab had come to four hundred dollars.
As we counted down to the big day, we felt jittery and underprepared, as if we were waiting for the arrival of a new baby. We knew that once tiny Scout was in our car, there would be no turning back.
When the day for pickup finally came, Henry and Will drove up to Thistledown while I stayed behind in Connecticut making final preparations. A little after three o’clock, Henry pulled into our driveway and there she was, a white ball of fluff resting in the
backseat of our Subaru on an ancient Superman towel from Will’s toddlerhood. Picking her up, I put Scout on the lawn and she padded toward the house. Halfway to the door, she squatted to pee. We clapped in jubilation, and we could scarcely believe our good fortune when she repeated this same routine a few hours later.
backseat of our Subaru on an ancient Superman towel from Will’s toddlerhood. Picking her up, I put Scout on the lawn and she padded toward the house. Halfway to the door, she squatted to pee. We clapped in jubilation, and we could scarcely believe our good fortune when she repeated this same routine a few hours later.
Scout seemed to be more than partly housebroken, an unanticipated gift from Donna. It was hilarious watching her trot out the back door onto the lawn; since her back legs were taller than the rest of her, she looked like she might topple over, which she sometimes did. She would scamper a ways and then randomly plop down. Scamper then plop, her legs betraying her as often as they propelled her forward.
Now that Scout was finally home, none of us could stop picking her up to cuddle. I had forgotten how much having a new puppy is like having a new baby. Besides looking for any excuse to inhale that irresistible puppy smell, I felt a reflexive urge to cover the top of Scout’s soft head with kisses. It is actually very important for a new puppy to get used to being handled, but I admit that I wasn’t kissing and cuddling with her because I knew it was the right thing to do.
Just as I did when our children were little, I made up lullabies with silly lyrics and then sang to her when she cried before sleep. I also felt the unparalleled joy
of seeing her tired eyes close, although she would invariably wake again in the middle of the night. Henry, ever the hero, slept next to Scout’s crate so that he could hear her stir when she needed to go outside to relieve herself. More than fifteen years had passed since we had performed this routine with Buddy, and we were rusty.
of seeing her tired eyes close, although she would invariably wake again in the middle of the night. Henry, ever the hero, slept next to Scout’s crate so that he could hear her stir when she needed to go outside to relieve herself. More than fifteen years had passed since we had performed this routine with Buddy, and we were rusty.
Scout woke every morning at six on the dot. She immediately started crying and whimpering, but she always cheered up the minute she had company. Cornelia, who had a few weeks of summer break from medical school, had come to Connecticut to help, and we traded off the responsibility for taking care of Scout in the early morning. When it was my turn, I didn’t mind at all. The soulful brown eyes that greeted me had long lashes that gave Scout a sultry, flirtatious look; she was a canine version of Veronica Lake, down to her blond, silky fur. Although dogs supposedly don’t like to be stared at, Scout looked deeply into my reddened, sleep-deprived eyes as if searching for clues. Who was this person? What were all these new smells?
She liked clamping down on my forearm with those needle-sharp teeth. Soon she was chewing on little rawhide bones, and she went through them like jelly beans. We watched carefully while she chewed, hoping we could prevent her from swallowing any of the pieces she worked so hard to detach.
Will’s Superman towel now lined the bottom of Scout’s crate, and Henry planned to buy a clock to put in the crate with her. He remembered that his mother, Lynne, had told him a story from her childhood about preparing a little bed for her new puppy, Nicky. Nicky slept in a laundry basket filled with soft, clean blankets, into which Lynne tucked an old-fashioned windup alarm clock. When Henry had asked her why she put the clock in the basket, Lynne answered, “The ticking reminded Nicky of her mother’s heartbeat.” This story was especially meaningful to Henry because his mother had died in her sixties of heart trouble.
Scout looked awfully little in her crate, but her big paws were a tip-off that she wasn’t going to stay small. While she slept, I loved watching her little back as it rose and fell. Even so, I still sometimes worried that I might not love Scout as much as Buddy, a fear I kept to myself. I didn’t know it then, but this is a very common worry of new dog owners.
It’s also not unusual for new dog owners to be reminded of their experiences with infants. In fact, our response to a puppy may be partly hormonal. John Homans, who wrote a perceptive article about dogs and their owners for
New York
magazine, noted that a recent study showed that a dog’s gaze increases oxytocin levels in its owner, and oxytocin is the same hormone that creates such intense bonding between a baby and its mother.
New York
magazine, noted that a recent study showed that a dog’s gaze increases oxytocin levels in its owner, and oxytocin is the same hormone that creates such intense bonding between a baby and its mother.
Jill and Scout soon after Scout’s arrival in Connecticut
It’s long been understood that puppies stir powerful feelings in humans; in fact, over the thousands of years that dogs have been domesticated, breeders have purposely preserved their puppy characteristics, which is one reason why so many older dogs act like perpetual puppies. Temple Grandin, a widely respected animal behaviorist who raised many golden retrievers earlier in her life, was one of several experts I consulted during Scout’s early puppyhood. She told me that breeders have also bred dogs to be hypersocialized. “So it’s natural,” Grandin said, “that some people treat their dogs like children. And the dogs are very attuned to us.” Grandin, who is autistic, has written a number of books, and I found one of them,
Animals Make Us Human
, especially useful.
Animals Make Us Human
, especially useful.
I consulted a number of other books as well. Next to Grandin’s book on our shelf was a volume by the monks of New Skete, guide-dog trainers who lived in an Eastern Orthodox monastic community in upstate New York. The monks have written several extremely readable and useful dog-training manuals, including
The Art of Raising a Puppy
and
How to Be Your Dog’s Best Friend.
I was amused one day when I realized that Henry and I used these books the same way our parents had turned to Dr. Spock to help raise us.
The Art of Raising a Puppy
and
How to Be Your Dog’s Best Friend.
I was amused one day when I realized that Henry and I used these books the same way our parents had turned to Dr. Spock to help raise us.
The monks’ general precepts made a lot of sense to us, and their daily regimen for new puppies comported with our idea of how a day with a dog ought to go. Passionate advocates of a rural life, the monks were so persuasive on the subject that Henry decided to stay in Connecticut right through Labor Day, when Scout would be almost five months old. By then she would have had all her shots, which was not a small matter. City pavements can expose puppies to parvo, giardia, and other ailments that can potentially kill them overnight. The green of our backyard seemed a much safer option than the urban wilds of Manhattan.
Part of the plan for getting a dog precisely in mid-June was that the weather in Connecticut was likely to be lovely. With any luck, the pestilential heat and humidity of recent summers would hold off until Scout and we got our legs under us. Unfortunately, that’s not how it worked out: instead of sweet spring gliding into summer, the weather was almost tropical and there were sudden thunderstorms nearly every day. Happily Scout showed no fear of the storms, but as she got bigger and feistier we all began to go stircrazy. By the end of June, it was time for Scout to
begin socializing with other dogs and with people. And it was time for us to emerge from our puppy bunker, too.
begin socializing with other dogs and with people. And it was time for us to emerge from our puppy bunker, too.
Our friend Marian Spiro came to our rescue. Ever since Scout’s homecoming, Marian had been calling us frequently to check in and offer tips. Because her English golden retriever, Cyon, was Henry’s inspiration for finding Scout, Henry considered every morsel of advice from Marian extremely valuable. At eightyfour, she had raised many puppies, including goldens, and she knew how to handle almost every challenging situation.
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