From Hot Springs, Arkansas, nestled in a national park, deep in a hinterland of rolling hills and verdant valleys, she flew. (Actually the breeder put her on a plane in Little Rock.) On wings of steel she flew through the day and night skies (Delta screwed up and forgot to put her on two flights in Atlanta: Fie on you, Delta, inhumane lumpen) and landed, bedraggled, quivering, on the gray dirty snow of Newark Airport's cargo terminal. Thence, from a filthy crate into my unsure arms.
Was it love at first sight? Not so much. It was more akin to like at first sight (she's a looker), relief at her arrival at one in the morning, and a sense of duty. A feeling inside that demanded, "This is now your life for the next fifteen years, God willing she should live so long and you don't accidentally kill her, you inexperienced idiot, she's so damn tiny and vulnerable.Yikes, what have I got myself into, what did I need this for? I was free as a bird." Not Brangelina on their first movie set together.
So what changed? Well, love grows under certain circumstances. When you have the right partner.
After twelve difficult, lonely, boring, dutiful days of following to the letter instructions from the Dog Whisperer and other animalist sages, Sugar has trained me. She's a mensch, indulges me. She's followed my bumbling attempts to house train her with good grace, trying her best to please me. And when she makes a mistake, she runs to her puppy papers, squats, and does her utmost to squeeze something out to show me she knows better, all the while peering up at me with her chocolate eyes, a sheepish grin on her face. She shows me by her every gaze, by her every effort at good behavior, that she loves me, nay, adores me. That the sun no longer shines for her unless I'm present among the rays. This is beautiful. This is irresistible. Sugar, instructing me in how to treat her and love her. Sugar, a canine, making a human more human.
So what is the secret of this so-far happy relationship?. Here, I warn you, I expect and intend to be terribly un-PC. I did a lot of research on the kind of dog I wanted in my life. Narrowed it down to toy Poodles (not too big to carry in a bag, thus not restricting my freedom of movement; intelligent; fluffy; good hair-dos.) Then I found a breeder with puppies borne of generations of champion sires and dams (see links below). Next, asked him to give me the best of the litter (he said Sugar is the one he'd keep if he could keep a pup from this whelping). It was a shidduch! A deal a Jewish matchmaker would negotiate. Here's what I have to offer (good home, enough money to groom a Poodle every six weeks because they care about their dignity, enough money to pay for said Poodle as quality is never cheap, this is a universal truism).
And what did I get in return? A Poodle with a scroll of a pedigree. Poodles are bred by respectable breeders to be people-companions, to be healthy, intelligent, sprightly, fine-figured. They call this conformation. And apparently Sugar is "stacked." That's the term in dog show lingo for good physical form. Not that it matter so much around here as we both pretty much slouch around the house during these snowy days. But whatever. It's important. It's pedigree. I'm not saying other dogs can't be sweet. I'm merely pointing out that I went about getting the kind of dog I wanted in a logical way, even if it was mildly slapdash. But that's just me and the best I'm capable of.
So, dear reader, allow me some scope to extrapolate from this experience to human life. How many marriages based on love at first sight stand the test of time? Some don't even make it the twelve days Sugar and I have now traversed. How do such marriages often end up? At the animal shelter for humans, waiting, waiting, for another human to come along and choose the reject from love-at-first-sight. No, a relationship has to be worked on, hard and always. This has been my human experience as well. If I ever had to do it over again (poo poo, throw salt over my shoulder, hail Mary), I'd look at someone's pedigree first, I think. I'd check out where the dog (make that man) came from, who he is, what he's done. What is his potential for growth, for love and learning? Only then (as with Sugar) would I kiss him on the lips. Thanks God, as my mother would say, I've been lucky in all my relationships. But it didn't have to be so. Hearken unto my voice, O pet seeker. Hearken. Pedigreed dogs are expensive, but toy dogs eat very little (Sugar, only 1 1/2 cups of food a day!), live for many years, and end up costing about a nickel a day over a lifetime, unless you lose it in a snowbank).
So, Sugar and I kiss on the lips. Her muzzle is small, her mouth black, her tiny tongue rough, pink and a bit dry. She gets carried away and also likes to lick inside my nostrils -- salty, I presume. I let her. It doesn't even disgust me anymore. What's happening to me? Am I becoming some sort of animalist? That damn little bitch is altering my very self-image. Ah, the power of pups. Do they they know their own power? Sugar probably does. She's a French Poodle, the genius of the canine world.
I wish you puppy kisses too. They're pleasant, and don't lead to any further decision-making.
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