Sent Back to Remedial Class

Well, we achieved it. Hubby and I made it to the class of spoilers, nurturers of spoiled brats. And Sugar, genius pup that she is, encouraged us all the way. We created a four-pound monster. When people came to the house, she raced through every room, uncatchable, out of control. Is that a polite greeting? Is that the way the well-behaved and adjusted pooch behaves? Hardly. And I so had my heart set on a well-mannered canine. Not only for the braggadocio aspect, but for her own safely and sense of well-being.

But lately, in the last week or so, when I called her, she literally gave me the cold shoulder, turned tail flippantly and ran in the other direction. Often with a morsel of Pup-Peroni ten inches from her teeth. "Bedtime, Sugar, let's go upstairs, which you love."  Run run run in mad circles and catch me if you can; this her response to my polite invitation. This would obviously not do. Trainer Scott would have to be called back into action.

Yesterday, upon greeting Scott, Sugar the new egomaniac (she has no idea she's four pounds and can be squashed like a bug), streaked about the house. "Ah," Scott said, "I see. She's out of control." I felt like tucking my tail beneath my legs. My smart, beautiful, petite, delightful puppy out of control! But not to fear, and not to feel humiliated, Scott was here, with all his canine/human wisdom. He says it's almost never the fault of the dog; it's always the Human. And usually it's because the Human is afraid that if strict, the dog won't love her anymore; or worse, the dog will think the Human doesn't love HER anymore.

It was time for Tough Love.

Scott's diagnosis was no doubt correct. But what was the remedy? When he put Sugar through her paces -- all the commands she knows by heart backwards and forwards -- she did them all for him, in one go. She didn't wait for orders. Then she jumped up on him for the treat. I was mortified, as you can imagine. Only two weeks ago he'd been suggesting Sugar be taken for advanced agility training. Now she was a little savage, accountable to no one. But Scott has seen much in the canine world as a trainer, and he had the answer (well, we'll see about that in a week or two). He cut off the handle of her red outdoor leash so she can wear it all the time. Meaning that if she refuses to come, I can step on the end of the leash and make her. Tough love, little one. One of us needs to be boss, and as with a child, it can't be you.

So we've regressed to doing only come and sit. All the rest of the marvels of Sugar's agility and obedience rest waiting in the future, when she's a "mentsch" again. Now, if she doesn't come, I can give her a gentle yank (yes, it hurts me more than it hurts her). I've had to put the snack fanny pack back on because we're at square one again. And that doesn't feel good to me; yes me, I'm a person too! I can't crow yet about how much progress we've made, as Sugar is not completely reconciled to the new regimen. But I can say that Sugar has a creative mind, and has learned a few lessons I could live without (oh why can't she be a dummy?):

Sugar has learned to pick up the slack of the dangling leash by carrying the whole thing in her mouth around the house, so it's really tricky for me to step on or even catch that leash. Plus, she's perfected a downtrodden visage. She lies in her downstairs fleece bed and gazes at me with sad, disappointed, defeated eyes. As if to say, I had such high hopes for you, but now I know you don't really love me.

Naively, I thought I was buying a pet, a living being who would trot to me whenever I wanted, who would be endlessly loyal and obedient. Who knew I was really about to raise a third child? They say it will be worth the effort (don't they always say that?), and damn it, I do love her more and more. She knows it too, and exploits it to perfection.

Tiger Blood

It's Friday afternoon, the last one of a snowy March. The sun is fading in the pale sky and the Sabbath Bride is approaching, clothed magnificently in white. This is the beginning of the day of rest, that utterly radical concept. A night and day when everything stops, and even animals rest. A day of quiet, pleasure, and contemplation, if that is your bent. Could any concept be more pertinent today, in our age of frantic activity and frenzied information? If you can even call it information.

What a blessing to be rid of Charlie Sheen and the "goddesses" for 24 hours. Charlie Sheen and his tiger blood. Sugar and I feel so sorry for him. What a mind to live in: there's no rest, no succor, no One to hold you for awhile. That's what the Sabbath is for: rest, re-creation, renewal, relaxation, getting rid of tiger blood for a bit and giving yourself a transfusion of Sugar blood. Sugar blood? What's that?

Sugar blood is living calmly in the moment (sort of like meditating). Sugar doesn't need to meditate or do yoga, she doesn't go to ashrams or retreats. She just does what she's supposed to do each minute. Her time is spent eating, sleeping, playing with toys and people, getting tummy rubs, curling up in her fleece bed and pondering we do not know what. And, of course, offering copious kisses. Sometimes she barks at strangers at the door because life isn't perfect, and danger lurks. Her life is uncomplicated by existential questions and issues of the zeitgeist. She's a love dog, but not a sexy beast. She's fastened in the here and now (granted, she's still a puppy and thus retains her innocence).

But humans do not and cannot live in the here and now very often. And the here and now today tends to be filled with degrading and depressing images of people doing destructive distorted things, and making lots of noise and garnering a great deal of publicity doing them. We want, we need, to shut them off sometimes.

Perhaps it was always thus, but on a different scale. And that's why Judaism, why God, in fact, mandated the idea of a Sabbath, a sabbatical from crazy life. This we no longer take seriously. It's so archaic. We don't need a break, we can't afford it. But perhaps we ignore it at our own peril. I don't know the answer. I only know that for the first time in history, some three or four thousand years ago, people were told they musn't work for one day a week. And it was hard to do but really good.

May that intelligent Spirit of blessing continue to shine down on us in our day of doubt and cynicism. And Sugar says arf to that.

What's the Matter with Humans?

I put my questions about war to Sugar. She was still licking gravy off her lower lip whiskers (I know, disgusting to let a French Poodle grow whiskers, but she's getting groomed day after tomorrow).

"We seem so confused, Sugar, about this war, or non-war, in Libya. No one knows what's going on. You dogs know a thing or two about fighting," I averred to a four-pound ball of fluff.

Sugar licked her chops and stared at me thoughtfully. I realized then and there that I would get nowhere without a little dessert. Chopped her up a few bits of avocado, her favorite exotic delicacy.

Then she furrowed her brow, lifted her ears attentively, and stared me straight in the eye. Well, friends, if there's such a thing as meta-verbal communication, she let me have it straight up.

"What's wrong with you Humans? You are losing your instinct for self-preservation, and that's bad for us canines. We need you for protection, just as you need us for protection." I looked at the mini-weakling and rolled my eyes. But she didn't stop there. She was worked up. A low growl escaped her throat.

"When some stranger comes to the door, or near a window, I bark, don't I? Why? Use your great big noodle. Because I don't know whether it's a friend or foe, and in the art of survival, you can't take chances. You look, you sniff intensely, you know. Friend? Welcome. Foe? I'm gonna bite your damn head off if I can. If you have any intention whatsoever of harming me, my Humans, my Humans' property, you'd better be prepared for a fight. But first, silly Humans, you must determine whether the trespasser is friend or foe. Then be ready to protect your own self-interest. That's survival. Now I, as your official dog, think that my establishment is well worth protecting and not only that; but also worth developing to its most prosperous and happiest state, [Sugar has read the Founding Father with me, we're now on the new Ron Chernow bio of George Washington and Sugar recommends it highly as a great read.] Anyone who wants to deny you that is a foe. Go get 'im. But something like a squirrel down from a tree? [She was probably alluding to Ghadafi, which was my original question to her.] Don't inflame your throat muscles barking at him, and save your chompers for the big rat out there somewhere. That squirrel is disgusting, being a form of rodent, but you could make a meal of him, and he can't really make a meal of you. He's just a nut chomper."

I think Sugar's onto something. We humans have diverged so far from our animal natures, that we can no longer attend to our own self-interest without wearing a hair shirt. The worst part is that some people blithely aver that that's a good thing, it's progress. They might have sung a different tune had they been confronted by Hitler, Stalin, Mao, Pol Pot or the Mad Mullahs of today, but these lucky folks live in the enlightened nations and don't have to worry about their big mouths and ideas landing them in a dungeon. or worse.

Sugar knows better. She snorts at them. She's the child of nature and also shares a sort of soul with us. She also avoided college where so many dumb ideas are now drummed into the heads of innocent youth. And though she's ridiculously domesticated, she hasn't forgotten her essential truths -- the ones concerning self-preservation and the right to the self-interested pursuit happiness, and God help anyone who wants to abolish it. She pursues it night and day and doesn't feel the slightest pang of guilt. Ah, guilt. But that's another story, for another time.

War, What's It Good For?

That's the slogan Sugar shouted to me as we watched the news last evening. Bombs exploding on dictators' palaces (or was that a multi-story tent?); unknowable non-uniformed desert rebels or civilians shooting automatic weapons in the air when they're supposedly short of ammunition; shrieking fighter planes coming from who knows where, going to who knows where? As I gaped at it all, wooden spoon in hand, forgetting about Sugar's dinner, I distinctly heard her declaim: "War, what's it good for?" But to be perfectly truthful it might have been something like, "ARF, woof  woof WOOF, ARF!"

Now Sugar, I know, doesn't mean to denigrate war. She knows it has its uses, it's in her DNA. It has its uses, and sometimes it's unavoidable. We just like to know what we're actually fighting about, you know, like who are the parties to the conflict and which side are they on. One presumes there are two sides, or there wouldn't be a conflict, right? So who's on who's side? Is the Arab League on our side? No. But they were yesterday. Is France on our side? Yes, they initiated our side of the conflict but they only have six planes. Is Norway on our side? Yes, they were en route to Tripoli in their own U.S. made planes, but when they got to northern Africa they didn't know who was in charge, whom to ask for instructions, so they flew back home. You get the picture: there's no picture here. For all we know we're fighting on behalf of fanatics who want to kill us. Perhaps the policy is to get them all into power over there lickety-split so they can get back to their work on us. Just get it over with. Because we don't really know who they are. I don't know. You don't know. Sugar doesn't know. The president doesn't seem to know. Hillary doesn't know. General Mullen doesn't know. Ghadafi doesn't know. No wonder they call it the fog of war. Also, who are we protecting? Are they friends? If not, why not let their friends protect them? There's at least supposed to be logic to war, or else we will repeat WW I over and over. But in this instance, who lied and who died? Or do they all lie? Where is our Washington, our Lincoln, our Churchill of today to guide us through the moral morass?

So, after spooning the minced chicken breast and quinoa into Sugar's bowl, I thought I'd give her a moment to inhale the food and then digest; then get her opinion, because -- altogether now -- French Poodles (despite being French) are the geniuses of the canine kingdom.

Oh, she answered me alright. However, it will take me a little time to translate her pithy comments for you, drawn from the wisdom of the canine kingdom, man's alter ego. Don't miss tomorrow's post.

Japanese Dogs and Toy French Poodles

Are they different because they're Japanese? Have they inherited biologically a greater sense of duty and heroism from their general culture? Or are they representative of all dogs? We know canines to be man's best friend, but we didn't know they could extend their loyalty and devotion to each other.

Six or seven million YouTube viewers saw the clip of a wet, bedraggled parti-colored hound in a muddy northern village washed away in the tsunami, refusing to abandon a friend -- an injured spotted dog, lying beside a broken drain pipe. The hound goes so far as to put his paw over the face of his friend when a human tries to lure him away with the scent of food. Can animals really be this noble? I hardly know a person this noble in my town, and there's nothing wrong with my town, as far as I know. But we haven't been tested this way. Perhaps the problem is complacency born of ease. Maybe nobility surfaces only at times of hardship and trial.

Well, thank God Sugar is not in Japan, and neither am I. And believe me, I do not make light of the awesome tragedy unfolding there, growing worse as the days progress and our information increases. I sent money to the Red Cross today, thinking that of all organizations, the likeliest to get the money quickly and efficiently into the hands of the populace would be the IRC.

But my mind kept wandering nevertheless. What if disaster should strike us here in New Jersey? What if I were incapacitated, and had only Sugar at hand to help me? How prepare for that? Should I try to teach Sugar to dial 911? Toy Poodles, as I don't have to reiterate -- but will -- are the geniuses of the canine kingdom. I would bet a pretty penny I could teach her to use the phone. But what would she say? Would an arf be enough to alert the operator to send the Rescue Squad to my house? And all things considered, what else could I train a five pound squirt to do? I'm light at 110, but can I seriously expect this pooch, the size of a dinner bag, to drag me to safety in case of a fire or sudden heart attack? Could she get me out the door?

Maybe I should have gotten a full-sized Poodle, one who can actually climb the stairs herself. But it's too late for that now. No, I'm afraid that practical aid from Sugar in an emergency is not one of those things about her of which I can boast. Yes, even in this besotted blog, sometimes we must admit failure. A woof or two, copious tears, much licking about the face and ears, and that's about all I'd get in the way of help. Better than nothing; I'd probably have to worry about getting her out of the house. But there you have it: no use trying to prepare over-much for future calamity. I'm enjoying Sugar now, and she's enjoying me (and my Franco-Jewish cooking); we're both happier for being together. That's enough, and more. We bid all our readers the luxury of being complacent, of living and loving in the moment, and letting the future look after itself.

Sugar is Enervated

Energy is one of the themes of the past week. That and violence. The energy we speak of is nature's energy to destroy unintentionally, as in Japan; and humans' energy to destroy with lust, as in Itamar.

We can't blame nature. It does what it must. And we don't want to enter the field of international politics in a blog pertaining to French Poodles. But we must say that though the destruction in Japan is far greater, the destruction in Itamar is far scarier. Think of plunging a knife into the heart of a sleeping three-month-old baby; think of then slashing her throat. Or that of a three-year-old toddler. Seriously, try to imagine doing that. I'm looking at Sugar lying at my feet, trying to imagine piercing her furry little body with a knife, and I recoil in utter disbelief that it can be done, and she's just a dog. No, those are not political acts and there is no excuse under the sun for them. None. That the victims were Jews living where they had no "right" to live? That they should have known better? That's twaddle. There are political ways to remove them, as from Gaza, which is where this family originally lived. They were human beings slaughtered savagely by monsters raised to hate; this is the energy of hatred, greater even than the energy of anger. There are no "buts." This is purest evil. That is all we will say.

Sugar, thank God, belongs to nature and not to humankind. She's no more capable of hate than an earthquake, though she is no stranger to destruction, to wit, the now-uneven fringe on my Pierre Deux slipper chair beside my desk. But our hearts aren't into blogging today. It's too soon after too many were killed, and so many others left homeless, orphaned and bereaved. Fortunately for Sugar, she has no sense of humor, and therefore will not turn to it for solace, and be wholly disappointed. She is affected only as my absorbent mirror. If I am sad, then Sugar stops racing about the house. If I have no energy, she has no energy. She lies curled on my Bennington College canvas tote bag with her bully stick and "road kill" toy, and snoozes and waits. She will doze until her Human emerges from the doldrums, then she will rise with her. This is the task given her by nature and breeding: companionship. Are there many more noble callings in life than that?

Discipline Begets Trust Begets Intimacy

I'm merely in the midst of formulating this equation, and it does pertain to a puppy so I can't claim that it's universally applicable in life, but let's try to work it out together.

Here we stand, Sugar and I, eyeball to eyeball, though sometimes at a slight remove, more or less as we were yesterday, when we started obedience training, treatless. It would be wonderful to report that Sugar has received absolutely no Pup-peroni for a sit or a down, but that would be false. However, she's only had a few morsels of that delectable jerky. For the truly crucial command, "Come, Sugar," she's had nothing but the hairy eyeball.

This business made me queasy at first. Why would she come without a treat? She knows she'll be fed at the next mealtime anyway. But I was fearful of failure, for both of us. The ramifications of failure would be important. And aside from the asinine ("I can't even get a dog to listen to me"), they could be serious. I could never trust her. She could never trust that my word was law and that therefore she was protected from the outside world because with her cooperation I would always be able to intercede on her behalf. Discipline seems to be the prerequisite for trust between pup and her Human.

So we drilled it. Half a day yesterday with Sugar looking around for hot dog morsels. An hour last night. Several attempts this morning. Several more after lunch when her thinking cap was on but also when she geared up into protein-fueled running mode. Here's the direct report from our last session:

I kneel down a few paces from Sugar. Sugar looks up at me. She's lying down, chewing a cardboard box top, a favorite afternoon pastime. Her look says, "What do you want now? Can't you see I'm busy?"

"Come, Sugar," I say. I don't even try to sound chipper anymore. She knows this is business, not play. I then remember to make the "come" motion with my hand, just because you're supposed to, not because she doesn't know already what come means.

Sugar lets the box dangle from her jaw, a bit of brown paper stuck to her lower whiskers. I don't repeat the word. I don't repeat the gesture, but I do rap the floor with my knuckles, just to impress. A bird flew in the sky, or was it a plane, or a squirrel climbing the tree. Sugar's head followed the clues, and when silence resumed, there was nothing to look at but me. She looked at me, blinked. I sat immobile, three feet away. It would have been a cinch for her to lift her tush and walk over. But no. She yawned. So wide I could see where her tongue is attached at the root. Then looked at me. Suddenly, the not-unexpected fake itch. Must have been a really unquenchable fake itch. I just looked at her, and in my look there were plenty of words: Get over here already, my knees are starting to ache, this is for your own good, I'm not giving up, so you better, and fast, or else I don't know, but please do it so we can be a good couple. Sugar (Poodles are the geniuses and clairvoyants of the canine world) caught the drift, or saw something different in my eyes. She raised her haunches, stretched her front legs long and low, licked her chops, looked me over, then took four tiny steps towards me.

Did she get a reward? You bet she did. She got a fervent kiss on the head, much hair-mussing, and cries of "good baby!" We had passed the test together. We need to repeat it many times for surety, but we both know a threshold was crossed. We had discipline, and that created the mutual bond of trust.

So where does intimacy enter the equation? Well, when I know that I can trust my dog, and my dog knows she can trust me, we become a special team. We know one another on a deeper level. We feel better about each other and life. We are riding the earth together in tandem, a team. Our structure is our intimacy and our intimacy is security.

Thousands of years ago, out of the mists of time, dogs and only dogs, rose to walk with men. Why? No one knows. But hail to the Creator for the beauty of his design.

When I say "Come, Sugar," It Means...

Nothing, really, not yet. What is One's Word worth? Is one a serious person or is one timid, afraid of disapprobation, even from a dog. This is a question that can dog life (no pun intended) throughout, but particularly when raising a tiny puppy. The little canine sniffs out the slightest wavering, and poof! it's over. You lost the battle of wills to a four-pound weakling, a being who has to worry every moment about being stepped on, literally. Puppy becomes boss. Puppy never needs to come again. Unless she's in the mood. Maybe for a treat she'll push herself. But for nothing? No, she'll make a little show of it, then contract the fake itch.

Dogs are insanely logical. Words must be followed by actions. There has to be follow-through, or there's no obedience. Kind of reminds me of my kids when they were babies. Kids don't just raise themselves. If you want them to come when called, every time, and not get run over by a speeding car, they have to know you mean business.

But puppies, despite similarities, are not children, and they don't speak or understand English. If they get up to ten words, they're geniuses. They have a different form of communication entirely, and the dog's Human must learn their language.

Well, as is normal, Sugar and I have come to rely on the snack for obedience training. Scott the dog trainer showed me how to attach the meat bag to my belt, and this is a powerful draw for Sugar. "Come" snack. "Sit" snack. "Down" snack. You get the picture. But now, Scott tells me, it's time to wean Sugar from the bag and all the treats. Yes, all. She must come, sit, down, stay, down, sit, come, stay, down, etc., all in one go -- treatless. And you only give the command ONCE. Yesterday I asked him, "Do you think she heard me? Maybe she missed the cue."

"Oh, she heard you alright," he said. Dogs have superb hearing. So what do I do now?

This much I know: dogs are immune to pleading, cajoling and all tricks of the tongue. They understand bribery, but that's no longer an option in our power struggle. That leaves Sugar and me face to face, eyeball to eyeball. Her will against mine. Who will win? Well, I must. I mean I just must. As a proper pet owner I MUST win, because her life could depend on it. So I can't let her be a spoiled brat. Who knew I'd have to go through this again?

Take bedtime. Yes, take it, Sugar chimes in. She has no use for it at all. This is when we go upstairs and prepare for lights-out. This is precisely when Sugar finds a stray peanut under the couch. Or when she decides to race through the house. "Sugar, come!" I say. Sugar performs another lap through the living and dining rooms. She's so fast, she's like a squirrel, her curly ears flying backwards, her back undulating. Trying to catch her is akin to deliberately giving yourself a heart attack: I don't think it's possible.

So last night, after my stern lecture from Scott the dog trainer, I got serious. This is about my word. So let's get it right. Final urination: check. Favorite toys: check. Snack earlier in the evening: check. Kitchen dark and quiet: check.

"Come, Sugar," I said quietly, sitting on the bottom step (Sugar's too small to mount the stairs herself, which makes her recalcitrance all the more absurd). Sugar glanced at me, surveyed the dark room, nosed the floor, licked up a crumb from dinner under the table, gazed my way again, sat down, eyed me, scratched her ear with a back leg.

I sat, said nothing. Just eyed her back. The word "come" was practically shooting off my tongue, but I kept my lips closed. Sugar abandoned the shelter of the kitchen table, inched towards me with her back legs, leaving her front legs on the floor, as if being dragged. I was immovable, a Sphinx. It was over. For one night.

We'll see what happens tonight. If my experience with little ones is any guide, it won't go well tonight. But we're moving in the direction of Adult Human Primacy in the relationship.

Sugar Needs a Job

Are you hiring, dear reader? Do you know anyone who's hiring? Will you put in a good word for Sugar? Here are her qualifications: She's very small and can worm her way into tight spots (holes in basements, for example); her nose is flawless (she can smell a sardine at ten paces, or a rat or raccoon trapped under your eaves); she's swift as wind (eludes my grasp at bedtime so fast that we now call her La Loca) and could return tools quickly, albeit in a damp state. The more I write about her qualifications the more I feel Sugar would be at home in a carpentry or at the side of a handyman. Treats required, but no lunch hour needed. Two seconds will do. She works cheap -- for food and the occasional pat on the head, if you can catch her.

I suppose that what I'm saying (apart from soliciting a job for Sugar) is that all sentient beings need to work and be rewarded. I don't consider that digging up the kitchen garden before breakfast and hoarding the wood chips in her bed constitute work, or a job. But digging is something that dogs do, and do well. However, this is a counter-intuitive occupation for a house pet. If only I could get her to plant things instead of rooting them up. But then, animals do not make order. They don't make the kind of order that people need to sustain a life with house pets. Which makes having house pets a luxury. And it is a luxury. Perhaps that's why the Egyptian princes and princesses so loved their cats: the cats were a symbol of abundance (they also took care of the mice).

Pets are always underfoot. It's annoying. They constantly wheedle you for affection. Unless, that is, you're in the mood for a little furry cuddle, in which case they run away and hide under the couch where you can't reach them. Such is the nature of fancy house pets. Such is the nature of pure bred Poodles. Maybe mutts are less standoffish, but I'll not give that a try till either Sugar or I meet the Grim Reaper, whoever goes first. If you're wondering why, then, I have a Sugar, you're right to wonder. I wonder myself.

I think that looking after Sugar is part of my job as an affluent Human. She's a dog, she exists, five million dogs a year are destroyed in this country, so there you have it. One dog is safe in our house. Why the fancy shmancy dog, you ask? Good question. Well, she's smart. Humans often like a challenge. She challenges me with her slight willfulness, her independence of spirit. I like that in animals and people. I like the little pads of her paws, like to massage them when she lets me. Those little pads make me aware of differences between humans and quadripeds, the vulnerability of their little feet. We are all so vulnerable in so many ways.

But let's stop being sentimental for a moment. Each of us needs a reason to get up in the morning (besides breakfast), and Sugar's no different. She doesn't get up because she knows she'll get a paw massage or leftover sweet potato fries. She needs to work, to contribute something. She's too smart to loll around. Warning to all potential puppy purchasers: think about getting a dumb dog. Therefore, if you, our readers, do not come up with appropriate employment for a white toy Poodle pup, I might have to eventually take the step of turning her into a working dog. Agility training perhaps, for shows. Or training as a therapy dog, which I mention in every post, but hope to be talked out of because Sugar's no angel of mercy. So think carpenter's apprentice, and feel free to write in with suggestions.

What Does Sugar Think About?

It's very hard to know. As a nouvelle Animaliste I'm at a particular loss to know what a French Poodle (now of the Jewish persuasion) thinks about. Does she wonder about her Creator? Does she fret over her shortcomings? Sometimes I see her stare off into space. Only for a moment though. Then a dust mote catches her eye and she jumps for it. Sometimes I suppose she just feels happy, for no identifiable reason, and she runs round in little circles. Why can't I be like that? At least a little bit.


Sugar's life is lovely and simple. All her needs are met. If a need isn't met, she knows how to ask for it. She nudges me toward the kitchen counter if it's five minutes past five. If she has an accident, she feels free about it, aware that I know it was my fault for not getting her to her proper elimination station at the right time. She's never punished or made to feel guilty. What would be the use of trying to make her feel guilty? Dogs are incapable of guilt. They only know love/approval vs. fear. And we never want her to fear us. But we do insist on respect. Sorta.

Luckily, Sugar's the genius of the canine world, as has been often stated, and she knows how to pretend to respect her Humans. She's so smart, that as I write these words, I realize she took advantage of my distraction and has been off to the antique hall table to chew on its claw's feet. Did I yell "Bad Sugar?" Of course not. I'm an enlightened Animalist. I hollered "EHH," in a terrifying voice. We never tell animals they are bad. I learned that from books. But the books also inform us that dogs don't understand English. So what's the difference between "Bad girl" and "EHH?" Nothing.

As with the raising of children, it's not what you say so much as how you say it. The expression of love, the expression of firmness -- both of these, let us hope, result in a good little animal. A friend for life.

P.S. While I was busy playing at the keyboard, Sugar gummed one of my favorite clogs, left stupidly under my desk. Fair game. I kept my cool though. Replaced it with a chew toy, in which she has absolutely no interest. Who can blame her? A cool leather shoe versus a chew toy? Come on...

Poodle, the Uncoolest Dog of the Post Modern Era

I revel in that. Nothing earns my disdain so much as a movement in art and literature that defines itself in terms of what it is not. It's not modern? So what is it? It's pure mimetic navel-gazing, nothing more. It's brought ruin to literature, and if I have to read one more novel about a poor minority woman who gets raped and ripped off by the government I won't even be able to puke. All puked out. There's nothing to read anymore.

I want to stress this: THERE'S NOTHING TO READ ANYMORE.

I'm begging anyone in the book business, please, please, bring back complimentary books about white men. It would just be so refreshing. We can't take it anymore.

It reminds me of hideous dogs: so "in." The New Zealand something or other that took Best in Show at the New York Dog Show a couple of weeks ago looked like a giant rodent with a beard, and legs of a greyhound. A tiny head on a massive grey snaggly-haired body. Ecchh. What's happened to taste these days? Taste, proportion, tone. Anyone? I'm seriously seeking an answer to the question.

The taste mavens of today seem to be stuck on ugly. Only the ugly can be beautiful. Because the beautiful had it too good for too long. And now we need to celebrate ugly. OK. I was with the program for a year or two. But that's enough. We can't stomach ugly, in animals, literature, art, forever. It's sad that ugly has to exist. And it does. And sometimes it can be noble, and sometimes it wakens us to our higher humanity. But enough is enough. I'm cultivating beauty. Yes, always a maverick, a dissident, a swimmer against the stream, I desire to behold beauty again. Isn't it enough that we all face death? What's uglier than that? Only those who refuse to recognize death in their near or distant future can continue to celebrate ugliness forever. Or are they simply masochists who insist we affirm them in their nihilism?

Well, that's why I got myself a white toy Poodle. Perfect conformation. Like a sculpture of a Greek god. Every line in perfect order. A coat of vanilla curls so thick you can hardly run your fingers through it. Almond-shaped eyes warm and hard at the same time. A sculpted muzzle that resolves itself in a fine black nose. The measure of the length of the back equal to the height of the legs. Symmetry, proportion. A throw-back to the Renaissance. A keen intelligence. A dog you don't have to feel sorry for. A dog who is not sloppy, but rather dainty. A beautiful little specimen of nature.

Pure bred Poodles for five centuries have been cultivated for two purposes: to be man's best and cleverest friend (and who really wants a dumb slob for a constant companion?), and to delight our days with the beauty of their persons and their personalities.

So yes, Poodles are outre these days. But ah, so many are missing so much. A Poodle is a work of art conceived and perfected by Nature and Man together. Why not enjoy?

To Sugar I say: L'chayim! Long life as you grow in inner and outer beauty. And to hell with Post Modernism.

No, Sugar's Not Dead, Just Been to Wisconsin

Actually, Sugar didn't take a trip to Wisconsin at all. Only in her mind. She decided to go on strike for her legitimate rights as a canine and symbolically fled to an Illinois Motel 6 to demand better pay, er, food. She already gets the best, mind you: only organic chicken and lamb, nice and moist from the can, with a little kibble to keep her teeth healthy. But no. She believes herself entitled, as a purebred Poodle, to something yet better. There are PEOPLE who would eat the food she's been served (if they hadn't seen the can, naturally), but Sugar has trained her government (that would be me) to give her only what we ourselves will eat.

So now I cook for three. I know it seems ridiculous, but trust me, she refuses to eat dog food, and for a couple of weeks (our "motel in Illinois" weeks) we slugged it out. I put organic dog food and kibble in her bowl, she looked at it, sniffed, and trotted off. I tried spoon feeding it to her, even letting her lick it off my fingers. Still no dice. I tested out real turkey chunks with kernels of rice and a bit of kibble thrown in for texture, and she gobbled up the turkey, the rice, and left every last microscopic morsel of kibble in the pink bowl.

How does she know what's dog food and what isn't? Is it seasoning? The cans say there's seasoning in them. But Sugar doesn't trust anything that didn't once sit on our dinner plates, that wasn't cooked in a copper-bottomed pan. So who am I to fight that kind of persistence, that kind of innate culinary perception in one whose only crime is not to be human? I've given up the struggle. Sugar wins again. Now, a meal that used to sit on the mat for an hour is snaffled up in 1.5 seconds. That does warm me a little. After all, who isn't flattered when one's cooking is appreciated, even adored. After a meal now she licks her chops several times and gazes at me in perfect contentment. Well, damn her teeth, I say. She'll have to get used to a puppy tooth brush, and too bad.

So I have to say it's one for Sugar in New Jersey, zero so far for the politicians in Wisconsin. Maybe I ought to hire Sugar out to teach them how to make their demands more palatable to the public. She certainly has a will and a winning way.

Now on to agility training and learning to be a therapy dog (though she's a little selfish, perhaps, for that work, but we'll see).