I don't think that Snoopy, our ginger-haired mutt (of blessed memory), ever put in an appearance in my dream life. But then, he was really my daughter's dog, and I merely the supplier of food, the cleaner of vomit, the chaser off the newly washed floors, etc. Apparently he never dug his way into my subconscious.
Sugar, on the other hand, only 14 weeks old, only two weeks with us, put in a loud and boisterous appearance in a dream last night. It was frightening, more nightmare than dream. There she stood, high on a rock where I couldn't reach her, barking her head off, barking till I wanted to dash my head on that rock.
Which is odd, because Sugar hasn't yet barked even once. Hubby and I have never heard the sound of her future barks; she resorts to whining, weeping and howling when she wants to mold our behavior. But, lurking in the back of my mind is something I read in the dozens of dog books that now lie ignored in a pile on the bedroom floor. The ominous line: "Small Poodles are known to be yappy and CAN bark a lot." This, to me, is truly the stuff of nightmare activity.
I gave a good deal of thought to the dream this morning. My mind hearkened back to a course I took in college on the interpretation of dreams. (Yes, dear reader, in those benighted days of all-women's colleges, an elite education consisted in courses that would have absolutely no practical application in the real world. And I had little interest in the real world at the time. I loved to read, loved to learn, wanted marriage, children and maybe to write later on, after the kids no longer needed me. And it worked out! So do not accept any belly-aching from me in future concerning my lack of a serious career, OK? Call me on it, I need sometimes to be reminded.)
Anyway, where were we? Yes, dream interpretation. My course was primarily focused on Freud's seminal work The Interpretation of Dreams. This was a book in which I was much interested (I think I got an A for the course, btw), especially as I leafed through it and picked apart all the types of dreams that pertained to my personal dream life. For the rest, I seemed to recall having a copy of Cliff's Notes on hand.
If you listen to Freud (who is being discredited these days, but who isn't?) dreams are either wish fullfillments, manifestations of fears, or based on penis envy. Freud was big on penis envy and deemed it the cause of all neuroses in women (which I never could understand as in my young years I often worried about the vulnerability of having one's private parts dangling between one's legs. Anyone could kick you there! A most alarming thought to me, and I felt rather sorry for people with dangling privates).
But back to Sugar and my dream. We can rule out penis envy for obvious reasons -- unless barking is a metaphor for male aggression. But I'm going to let that one go, not being a professional psychoanalyst. Now, wish fulfillment? Definitely not. In fact, the dream prompted me to enroll Sugar in puppy training classes already this morning. Don't even want to take the chance. But fear? Ah, fear. The motivator of so much of our behavior. I do fear an incessantly barking little canine, an uncontrollably yipping 4 pound beast consisting mostly of voice.
Living in fear, however, is a terrible way to conduct one's life. So as I write I'm trying to come up with the positive, modern, feminist, non-Freudian interpretation of this dream. And here it is.
Sugar stands on the tall rock. She's telegraphing me a message: I am Woman, hear me roar. I'm not roaring at You, my human, I'm simply a modern female puppy, and I want the world to know it. This is such a lame interpretation that even I blush to write it. But when it comes to our canine "others," we do tend to grow silly and soft in the head. This is a condition I already have enough of. In conclusion, I hope Sugar will oblige me by staying out of my dreams. She already controls the house and the life, but please, Sug, tread carefully on my subconscious.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Thursday, January 27, 2011
French Poodles Vs. a Sex Life: You Think Babies are Tough?
From the mists of history, from cave paintings of canines in southern France, from the dawning of Western civilization in Europe in the fifteenth century, French Poodles have been identified. Dwelling in caves and huts with their masters, they proved to be expert duck and truffle hunters, who stayed close to their masters and obeyed like no other dog. In fact, so attached were they to their humans that they were soon bred as companion dogs and the grunt work of retrieving and sniffing out grungy stuff from the earth and water left to pigs and other lower breeds of hounds.
And so, after thirteen days, Sugar and I are attached at the hip. Almost literally. She won't have it any other way. Sugar defines the lap dog. She makes Lady Bertram's pug, of Mansfield Park, seem stand-offish by comparison. This is truly a wonder for me. I don't think that even my mother ever loved me this intensely.
There is, however, a downside to this Poodle mania. It's called the husband in my life, who also loves Sugar. But who also enjoys recreational sex, as do I. This is not at all racy stuff, dear reader, because we're old and we're married and we're now animalists, so we can address the earthy issues.
Thirteen nights -- no sex yet. But why? you ask.
Well, how to explain? Sugar sleeps in her crate below my side of the bed. Hubby sleeps at my left. The first few nights after Sugar's dramatic air rescue, she tended to cry her eyes out in the crate. Then she bonded with me, strongly. A regimen was formed whereby hubby would hold her in his lap downstairs while I high-tailed it upstairs to have my bubble bath, cleanse and cream my face, get in nightie, etc. Then hubby would bring her up and we'd urge her into her crate alongside the bed. However, until I was actually physically in the bed, she cried. Not only did she cry, but she shrieked and howled like a wolf cub. Thus she trained me to quicken my formerly relaxing bedtime routine. Once we were both safely under the covers, Sugar could dry her eyes on her fleece mattress and drift off to puppy dreamland.
Well, after a couple of nights with little or no vocal objection, we thought we might try IT. Under the eiderdown we snuggled, struggling to strip off winter nightwear, locking lips, getting cozy, warming up...then...rustling. We ignored it. I snuggled up to hubby; still ready. Then whimpering. Snuggled up to hubby and heard only muffled sounds of laughter. He was laughing! It was over. I knew at once it wouldn't happen with Sugar beside us at the foot of the bed.
Next night. I decided that Sugar could be crated and left safely in the kitchen for ten minutes -- that's all we needed -- ten minutes before we began the nighttime ritual. You'd think she'd understand the need: she's a FRENCH Poodle, for god's sake. I put all her favorite toys inside: the dragon that squeaks, a tennis ball, a bully stick (do you know what a bully stick it? Because I didn't till last week when I was out buying puppy supplies -- it's a stick make out of bulls' private parts! Puppies and dogs LOVE to chew on them). So anyway, we tiptoed upstairs ("Mummy's coming back in one minute, Sugar, don't worry, Mummy's coming right back") raced to the bed, ripped off only essential items and locked lips. Everything was going so well. Suddenly hubby froze. "What's wrong?" I said. "She's howling, don't you hear her?" I didn't. "Ignore it," I said. "How can I ignore that?" I lifted my head from beneath hubby's hulking frame and I heard. The sounds of an entire asylum baying at the full moon.
However, dear reader, I want to report that we dim humans outsmarted the Poodle at last. We PRETENDED to go to sleep last night. (Second attempt of the evening, bear in mind.) And we fooled her. She quieted down and fell asleep. And even though we were exhausted we pulled it off. Was it lovemaking? That's a stretch. But where there's a will there's a way. So they say, whoever THEY are. I'll keep you posted.
And so, after thirteen days, Sugar and I are attached at the hip. Almost literally. She won't have it any other way. Sugar defines the lap dog. She makes Lady Bertram's pug, of Mansfield Park, seem stand-offish by comparison. This is truly a wonder for me. I don't think that even my mother ever loved me this intensely.
There is, however, a downside to this Poodle mania. It's called the husband in my life, who also loves Sugar. But who also enjoys recreational sex, as do I. This is not at all racy stuff, dear reader, because we're old and we're married and we're now animalists, so we can address the earthy issues.
Thirteen nights -- no sex yet. But why? you ask.
Well, how to explain? Sugar sleeps in her crate below my side of the bed. Hubby sleeps at my left. The first few nights after Sugar's dramatic air rescue, she tended to cry her eyes out in the crate. Then she bonded with me, strongly. A regimen was formed whereby hubby would hold her in his lap downstairs while I high-tailed it upstairs to have my bubble bath, cleanse and cream my face, get in nightie, etc. Then hubby would bring her up and we'd urge her into her crate alongside the bed. However, until I was actually physically in the bed, she cried. Not only did she cry, but she shrieked and howled like a wolf cub. Thus she trained me to quicken my formerly relaxing bedtime routine. Once we were both safely under the covers, Sugar could dry her eyes on her fleece mattress and drift off to puppy dreamland.
Well, after a couple of nights with little or no vocal objection, we thought we might try IT. Under the eiderdown we snuggled, struggling to strip off winter nightwear, locking lips, getting cozy, warming up...then...rustling. We ignored it. I snuggled up to hubby; still ready. Then whimpering. Snuggled up to hubby and heard only muffled sounds of laughter. He was laughing! It was over. I knew at once it wouldn't happen with Sugar beside us at the foot of the bed.
Next night. I decided that Sugar could be crated and left safely in the kitchen for ten minutes -- that's all we needed -- ten minutes before we began the nighttime ritual. You'd think she'd understand the need: she's a FRENCH Poodle, for god's sake. I put all her favorite toys inside: the dragon that squeaks, a tennis ball, a bully stick (do you know what a bully stick it? Because I didn't till last week when I was out buying puppy supplies -- it's a stick make out of bulls' private parts! Puppies and dogs LOVE to chew on them). So anyway, we tiptoed upstairs ("Mummy's coming back in one minute, Sugar, don't worry, Mummy's coming right back") raced to the bed, ripped off only essential items and locked lips. Everything was going so well. Suddenly hubby froze. "What's wrong?" I said. "She's howling, don't you hear her?" I didn't. "Ignore it," I said. "How can I ignore that?" I lifted my head from beneath hubby's hulking frame and I heard. The sounds of an entire asylum baying at the full moon.
However, dear reader, I want to report that we dim humans outsmarted the Poodle at last. We PRETENDED to go to sleep last night. (Second attempt of the evening, bear in mind.) And we fooled her. She quieted down and fell asleep. And even though we were exhausted we pulled it off. Was it lovemaking? That's a stretch. But where there's a will there's a way. So they say, whoever THEY are. I'll keep you posted.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
State of the Union: Sugar and I Kiss on the Lips
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.
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.
Monday, January 24, 2011
Off Topic but On Point -- Tiger Moms
Dear Ms. Chua,
Don't make me laugh.
Jewish mothers, of kids and pups, to use one example, cannot be Tiger moms, ever. I don't care if you were a refugee from Hitler and ended up in the Jewish ghetto in Shanghai. I don't care if you are one of the Cochin Jews, descended from The Ten Lost Tribes, and re-converted back to Judaism in the late twentieth century, after two millenia thinking you were Chinese Confucians. The thing you ask is genetically impossible.
You see, first and foremost, Chinese children arrive in armadas, they rain down from the heavens and swell the planet; so much so that their nasty national dictatorship feels the need to limit this endless arriving. Jewish children on the other hand (1 million of whom were murdered in the Holocaust) are a dwindling breed. Indeed, the Jewish people has not yet replaced the six million souls lost in history's greatest Pogrom. We're a people of 16 million worldwide, while in one Chinese town alone you can find that many individuals ( but how individual are they really allowed to be?).
So, Ms. Chua, you think we're going to leave one of these endangered creatures out on the porch in a snowstorm because the three-year old made us a birthday card and colored outside the lines? Hunh! We're going to photograph the hell out of that scribbled card, email it to all our relatives, friends and casual acquaintances, then tape it to the fridge and slap colored stars all over it. After which we will smother the little one with kisses and coos of praise, tell her she's the greatest thing since chopped liver (which, when my mother makes it, is very great indeed: the secret is shmaltz), fasten the top button of her sweater, even though the thermometer on the back door registers seventy degrees, and nag (I mean encourage) her to draw another picture -- maybe right now! We will get out the crayons and construction paper and prepare our trembling bosoms to behold the bloom of genius. We trust our children, you see.
We would never resort to screaming and ridicule. That's abuse! We urge, repeat ourselves, beg, nag, cajole, ask the child to make mummy proud, etc. Keep those crayons lying about just in case. Enroll the child in an art course for toddlers. That sort of thing. Gentle. Non-coercive. I'll bet it works as often as your method, Ms. Chua. Haven't you ever heard of Freud?
Sugar, I tell you, would not stand for your type of discipline. Never. She would whine till I couldn't stand it for another second, and then I'd give her a biscuit from my palm and pray she quiets down. You see, I already know she's the genius of the canine kingdom, and some day, she'll draw me that picture. It is not totally far-fetched. Her breeder tells me her sire, Prince, knows 250 English words. Do you know that many, Ms. Chua? And woof isn't one of them.
Yes, still brain-diminished, dear reader, but hang on with hope and fortitude. Sugar's only beginning her second week with her Jewish mother.
Don't make me laugh.
Jewish mothers, of kids and pups, to use one example, cannot be Tiger moms, ever. I don't care if you were a refugee from Hitler and ended up in the Jewish ghetto in Shanghai. I don't care if you are one of the Cochin Jews, descended from The Ten Lost Tribes, and re-converted back to Judaism in the late twentieth century, after two millenia thinking you were Chinese Confucians. The thing you ask is genetically impossible.
You see, first and foremost, Chinese children arrive in armadas, they rain down from the heavens and swell the planet; so much so that their nasty national dictatorship feels the need to limit this endless arriving. Jewish children on the other hand (1 million of whom were murdered in the Holocaust) are a dwindling breed. Indeed, the Jewish people has not yet replaced the six million souls lost in history's greatest Pogrom. We're a people of 16 million worldwide, while in one Chinese town alone you can find that many individuals ( but how individual are they really allowed to be?).
So, Ms. Chua, you think we're going to leave one of these endangered creatures out on the porch in a snowstorm because the three-year old made us a birthday card and colored outside the lines? Hunh! We're going to photograph the hell out of that scribbled card, email it to all our relatives, friends and casual acquaintances, then tape it to the fridge and slap colored stars all over it. After which we will smother the little one with kisses and coos of praise, tell her she's the greatest thing since chopped liver (which, when my mother makes it, is very great indeed: the secret is shmaltz), fasten the top button of her sweater, even though the thermometer on the back door registers seventy degrees, and nag (I mean encourage) her to draw another picture -- maybe right now! We will get out the crayons and construction paper and prepare our trembling bosoms to behold the bloom of genius. We trust our children, you see.
We would never resort to screaming and ridicule. That's abuse! We urge, repeat ourselves, beg, nag, cajole, ask the child to make mummy proud, etc. Keep those crayons lying about just in case. Enroll the child in an art course for toddlers. That sort of thing. Gentle. Non-coercive. I'll bet it works as often as your method, Ms. Chua. Haven't you ever heard of Freud?
Sugar, I tell you, would not stand for your type of discipline. Never. She would whine till I couldn't stand it for another second, and then I'd give her a biscuit from my palm and pray she quiets down. You see, I already know she's the genius of the canine kingdom, and some day, she'll draw me that picture. It is not totally far-fetched. Her breeder tells me her sire, Prince, knows 250 English words. Do you know that many, Ms. Chua? And woof isn't one of them.
Yes, still brain-diminished, dear reader, but hang on with hope and fortitude. Sugar's only beginning her second week with her Jewish mother.
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Sugar on My Lap
First post with Sugar sitting on my lap as I write. Pardon me for any lapses in thought, as I must stroke Sugar every ten seconds to quell her curiosity about the tapping of the keys and put her back into her sleepy trance.
The subject I'd like to address today is house training, for dogs and humans. To begin, the sage and solon of doggery today is The Dog Whisperer, Cesar Milan. According to Cesar, the order of importance of training any pup is: discipline, exercise, affection. The discipline consists in getting one's puppy to "go potty, Sugar," at this point. This entails watching the pup like a hawk and getting her on the pads at the moment she begins to sniff the floor and circle. Then we whisk her to the pads, and like idiots repeat her mantra, "Go Potty," about twenty times till she forces out whatever is in her (merely to oblige us) to heaps of praise and a sweet treat or a milk bone (in her case a quarter of a milk bone, as she only weights 3.1 pounds). We, meaning I, repeat the drill upon waking, after breakfast, mid-morning, after lunch, mid-afternoon, after dinner, mid-evening, before bed, and any other time she sniffs and circles. Dear reader, bear with me as I move through this inarticulate period of puppy house training. It's mind-numbing, and not at all conducive to clever ideas. The clever idea itself is to get through this period and earn freedom to think and try to entertain you. So hang on. Read inane scribblings for a few weeks. Please indulge me and I promise to to take plenty of CoQ to get my brain in order again. Or just in order.
Now to the point: Discipline, exercise, affection. For Sugar, this means potty training misery for a time and endless shrieks about chewing potentially poisonous house plants. Discipline is hard, yes. But utterly necessary. It's apparently a fact that the primary reason dogs end up in shelters is because they haven't been disciplined not to leave steaming messes all over their humans' carpets and newly re-sanded hardwood floors.
Next: exercise. Most breeds must be exercised vigorously. This means three-mile walks thrice a day. This is also discipline plus exercise for the human. In Sugar's case, I'm delighted to report, it means that I (or hubby) sit on the floor and throw a tennis ball down the length of the kitchen tiles about twenty times, and exercise is over -- for both of us.
Next, affection: You will have no difficulty understanding by now that if I had to take 3 three-mile walks a day in sub-freezing weather, ice and snow permanent fixtures underfoot, that even in Uggs I would probably be sorely tried to feel affection for my dog. I apologize to Animalists the world over, but we're all God's creatures, individual as the stars in the sky. This is what (or whom) toy Poodles are for. I can smother her with kisses, she has a tiny dry pink tongue with which to smother me with kisses, and so we get on together just fine.
And when you think about it, isn't it the same in human life? We need discipline (how else to rise in the morning when in the middle of a rare sweet dream?) and put down the novel at night before 3am. We need exercise in order to continue to consume the delicious meals served by local gourmet establishments and brought to our door by Delivery Now. And we need affection. We need love. We crave love. We die for love. We search for love on J Date and Christian Meeting. We hook up in bars. We dress up in sexy garb (we hope) for the other in our life. Without love, life is a dog in an animal shelter for three score and seven.
And so I come to my conclusion, born of the dizzying watchfulness for sniffing and circling: People and dogs are not alike. We live in the reverse order. We need affection before discipline; discipline might be the by-product of love. We need love before exercise: exercise too might be a by-product of love and the wish to please the beloved. (This naturally pertains only to the lazy among us.)
Yes, affection must come first for humans. And that perhaps is why God gave humans dominion over the animal kingdom. It's a privilege to love. All the rest is secondary. We train and instruct our pets, give them our love, and become more human in the process. It's why I have Sugar. All glibness aside, I'm trying to increase my capacity for humaneness, for what it means to be human. At my age (61, if I haven't mentioned that hateful number before) one begins to peer over the summit of the mountain and wonder what the rest is for. It looks so grubby. What's to look forward to? Drooping skin? Arthritis? And bingo! An idea. Perhaps this time is for enlarging one's capacity for what it means to be human.
I promise you more coherent and lively posts in future. If you will stick by me. Support yourself by the knowledge that in indulging me, you too are increasing your capacity for what it means to be human. Or just consider it discipline, and exercise for the eyes. Affectionately...
The subject I'd like to address today is house training, for dogs and humans. To begin, the sage and solon of doggery today is The Dog Whisperer, Cesar Milan. According to Cesar, the order of importance of training any pup is: discipline, exercise, affection. The discipline consists in getting one's puppy to "go potty, Sugar," at this point. This entails watching the pup like a hawk and getting her on the pads at the moment she begins to sniff the floor and circle. Then we whisk her to the pads, and like idiots repeat her mantra, "Go Potty," about twenty times till she forces out whatever is in her (merely to oblige us) to heaps of praise and a sweet treat or a milk bone (in her case a quarter of a milk bone, as she only weights 3.1 pounds). We, meaning I, repeat the drill upon waking, after breakfast, mid-morning, after lunch, mid-afternoon, after dinner, mid-evening, before bed, and any other time she sniffs and circles. Dear reader, bear with me as I move through this inarticulate period of puppy house training. It's mind-numbing, and not at all conducive to clever ideas. The clever idea itself is to get through this period and earn freedom to think and try to entertain you. So hang on. Read inane scribblings for a few weeks. Please indulge me and I promise to to take plenty of CoQ to get my brain in order again. Or just in order.
Now to the point: Discipline, exercise, affection. For Sugar, this means potty training misery for a time and endless shrieks about chewing potentially poisonous house plants. Discipline is hard, yes. But utterly necessary. It's apparently a fact that the primary reason dogs end up in shelters is because they haven't been disciplined not to leave steaming messes all over their humans' carpets and newly re-sanded hardwood floors.
Next: exercise. Most breeds must be exercised vigorously. This means three-mile walks thrice a day. This is also discipline plus exercise for the human. In Sugar's case, I'm delighted to report, it means that I (or hubby) sit on the floor and throw a tennis ball down the length of the kitchen tiles about twenty times, and exercise is over -- for both of us.
Next, affection: You will have no difficulty understanding by now that if I had to take 3 three-mile walks a day in sub-freezing weather, ice and snow permanent fixtures underfoot, that even in Uggs I would probably be sorely tried to feel affection for my dog. I apologize to Animalists the world over, but we're all God's creatures, individual as the stars in the sky. This is what (or whom) toy Poodles are for. I can smother her with kisses, she has a tiny dry pink tongue with which to smother me with kisses, and so we get on together just fine.
And when you think about it, isn't it the same in human life? We need discipline (how else to rise in the morning when in the middle of a rare sweet dream?) and put down the novel at night before 3am. We need exercise in order to continue to consume the delicious meals served by local gourmet establishments and brought to our door by Delivery Now. And we need affection. We need love. We crave love. We die for love. We search for love on J Date and Christian Meeting. We hook up in bars. We dress up in sexy garb (we hope) for the other in our life. Without love, life is a dog in an animal shelter for three score and seven.
And so I come to my conclusion, born of the dizzying watchfulness for sniffing and circling: People and dogs are not alike. We live in the reverse order. We need affection before discipline; discipline might be the by-product of love. We need love before exercise: exercise too might be a by-product of love and the wish to please the beloved. (This naturally pertains only to the lazy among us.)
Yes, affection must come first for humans. And that perhaps is why God gave humans dominion over the animal kingdom. It's a privilege to love. All the rest is secondary. We train and instruct our pets, give them our love, and become more human in the process. It's why I have Sugar. All glibness aside, I'm trying to increase my capacity for humaneness, for what it means to be human. At my age (61, if I haven't mentioned that hateful number before) one begins to peer over the summit of the mountain and wonder what the rest is for. It looks so grubby. What's to look forward to? Drooping skin? Arthritis? And bingo! An idea. Perhaps this time is for enlarging one's capacity for what it means to be human.
I promise you more coherent and lively posts in future. If you will stick by me. Support yourself by the knowledge that in indulging me, you too are increasing your capacity for what it means to be human. Or just consider it discipline, and exercise for the eyes. Affectionately...
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Quote of the Day
"The distance between insanity and genius is measured only by success."
I admit it. I'd love to take credit for that, but I am merely insane, and the successful Bruce Feirstein actually said it.
But what constitutes success? Who names it? Must one appear on Page Six to qualify? Or is getting a Poodle pup to ignore the green carpet and poop on her puppy papers also success? If so, I'm a bloody genius. We only had four accidents today. Mind you, puppies have to go at least ten times a day (in two forms, don't make me spell it out). Sugar, who is also obviously a genius, managed to do it on her papers six to eight times! As you already know, dear readers, Poodles are the geniuses of the canine race. I'd really hate to experience the dim dogs.
Another confession: I often don't know whether I'm a genius or insane. It's been this way all my life. As an old Jewess, I'm increasingly hearing an inner voice that floats up to my brain during the day, and sometimes even in my dream life, and whispers: you're insane, genius. In a rather derisive tone. My books don't get published. Hey, they're not PC. (By the way, do you know who coined that term, political correctness? No, it wasn't a professor at a San Francisco university, and no, it wasn't Dennis Kucinich. It was Leon Trotsky. Think about that.)
Another thing that irks. The word insane is really un-PC too, in my opinion, because it means unclean, as in unSANitary. You can look it up if you don't believe me. I think that's shameful. We're not unclean, we're just different, and all differences should be respected -- unless you're Jared Lee Loughner or the equivalent. Then you are as disgusting as dirty puppy papers and one can only blame the Tea Party for your actions.
But enough about Jared and me. We have very little in common. Jared would probably kick a puppy. And this blog is all about puppies, their innocence, their beauty, their freshness and health. How I'd love to soak some of it up. And maybe that is why I got a French Poodle puppy. I hope Sugar's innocence is catching. That's a condition of the mind it would be so lovely to recapture. Sometimes I feel like Ecclesiastes, so very world-weary. Bombarded by the dreadful nastiness of the world piped into our homes 24/7 like a symphony by (the genius) John Cage.
To sum up: I think Bruce Feirstein is a bit too self-congratulatory. There are many geniuses out here who are not "successful." And the insane successful people are still insane. Bruce must be successful but my final confession is that I don't really know who he is. Do you? Did he write a Broadway musical about gay people? Or was that Harvey. I'll Google him (or guggle him, as my mother says) and let you know next time we meet. If I remember, if my mind holds up. If...
I admit it. I'd love to take credit for that, but I am merely insane, and the successful Bruce Feirstein actually said it.
But what constitutes success? Who names it? Must one appear on Page Six to qualify? Or is getting a Poodle pup to ignore the green carpet and poop on her puppy papers also success? If so, I'm a bloody genius. We only had four accidents today. Mind you, puppies have to go at least ten times a day (in two forms, don't make me spell it out). Sugar, who is also obviously a genius, managed to do it on her papers six to eight times! As you already know, dear readers, Poodles are the geniuses of the canine race. I'd really hate to experience the dim dogs.
Another confession: I often don't know whether I'm a genius or insane. It's been this way all my life. As an old Jewess, I'm increasingly hearing an inner voice that floats up to my brain during the day, and sometimes even in my dream life, and whispers: you're insane, genius. In a rather derisive tone. My books don't get published. Hey, they're not PC. (By the way, do you know who coined that term, political correctness? No, it wasn't a professor at a San Francisco university, and no, it wasn't Dennis Kucinich. It was Leon Trotsky. Think about that.)
Another thing that irks. The word insane is really un-PC too, in my opinion, because it means unclean, as in unSANitary. You can look it up if you don't believe me. I think that's shameful. We're not unclean, we're just different, and all differences should be respected -- unless you're Jared Lee Loughner or the equivalent. Then you are as disgusting as dirty puppy papers and one can only blame the Tea Party for your actions.
But enough about Jared and me. We have very little in common. Jared would probably kick a puppy. And this blog is all about puppies, their innocence, their beauty, their freshness and health. How I'd love to soak some of it up. And maybe that is why I got a French Poodle puppy. I hope Sugar's innocence is catching. That's a condition of the mind it would be so lovely to recapture. Sometimes I feel like Ecclesiastes, so very world-weary. Bombarded by the dreadful nastiness of the world piped into our homes 24/7 like a symphony by (the genius) John Cage.
To sum up: I think Bruce Feirstein is a bit too self-congratulatory. There are many geniuses out here who are not "successful." And the insane successful people are still insane. Bruce must be successful but my final confession is that I don't really know who he is. Do you? Did he write a Broadway musical about gay people? Or was that Harvey. I'll Google him (or guggle him, as my mother says) and let you know next time we meet. If I remember, if my mind holds up. If...
Monday, January 17, 2011
Winston's Dogs and Mine
Winston Churchill is often associated with the English Bulldog. That, however, is purely anthropomorphic assumption. The cigar-chomping savior of Western civilization owned only Poodles. Who knew?
He had two brown miniature Poodles, both called Rufus. They were treated like members of the family. The Poodle ate in the dining room with the rest of the [Churchill] family. A cloth was laid out for him on the Persian carpet beside the head of household, and no one else ate until the butler had served Rufus's meal.
One evening at Chequers the film was Oliver Twist. Rufus, as usual, had the best seat in the house, on his master's lap. At the point when Bill Sikes was about to drown his dog to put the police off his track, Churchill covered Rufus's eyes with his hand. He said, "Don't look now, dear. I'll tell you about it afterwards."
This anecdote I stole from the internet. Have no idea who wrote it, but it's a dog-eat-dog world out here, friends. And I wish someone would sue me for intellectual theft so I could garner some attention.
However, what I wished to say was that my previous experience with a dog was very different from the one we're now having with Princess Sugar. And way different from Winston and Rufus. I am coming clean, though I expect the ASPCA will send that wagon out to rescue Sugar should they come across this post. The ugly truth is that a shaggy ginger mutt of indiscernable age picked up the family as we sat at the local ice cream parlor in Savyon, Israel, SUBURBAN Tel Aviv, 1981. We were minding our own business, but this dog was an Israeli street dog and knew how to deal with gringos. Every dog in town looked just like him, with either shorter or taller legs. Our seven-year-old daughter Rachel decided he was a Beagle, christened him Snoopy, and trotted him home. For the next nine years he was our dog. What did that mean in that time and place? It meant he had free run of the house, never saw a leash, oversaw the enlargement of his line, ate table scraps, made a pest of himself by running off to the schoolhouse and hiding under Rachel's desk till the teacher made her carry him home, barked his head off at will, wouldn't come in at night till he was bribed with salami, and so on.
Now Sugar is a purebred American Poodle, from a twenty generation line of purebreds and champions. She's no Snoopy, yet she's no Rufus either. Snoopy never got neutered and it killed him. He was a skirt-chaser, once wooed a neighboring German Shepherd who broke his leg. I think it was the only time we took him to the vet. Oh, and the time he got a back spasm sleeping on the cold tile in Rachel's room in wintertime. He lived the high life, but ladies' dogs always come to a sad end. And so it was with Snoopy. He was cut down in the prime of life (maybe, though we never did know his exact age, and he'd started losing his teeth, whether to old age or street fighting, we weren't sure), under the wheels of a speeding car. Bastards.
This will never happen to Sugar. She will be spayed at six months. She'll never taste the love of a dog, never meet the sire of her puppies. None of that. She will never take a risk, never win canine love. So who is better off? Sugar or Snoopy? It's hard to say. Personally, I suspect the whole uber-protection thing is really just a ruse to protect humans' shoes. Is it really for the dog? Please write in with opinions.
He had two brown miniature Poodles, both called Rufus. They were treated like members of the family. The Poodle ate in the dining room with the rest of the [Churchill] family. A cloth was laid out for him on the Persian carpet beside the head of household, and no one else ate until the butler had served Rufus's meal.
One evening at Chequers the film was Oliver Twist. Rufus, as usual, had the best seat in the house, on his master's lap. At the point when Bill Sikes was about to drown his dog to put the police off his track, Churchill covered Rufus's eyes with his hand. He said, "Don't look now, dear. I'll tell you about it afterwards."
This anecdote I stole from the internet. Have no idea who wrote it, but it's a dog-eat-dog world out here, friends. And I wish someone would sue me for intellectual theft so I could garner some attention.
However, what I wished to say was that my previous experience with a dog was very different from the one we're now having with Princess Sugar. And way different from Winston and Rufus. I am coming clean, though I expect the ASPCA will send that wagon out to rescue Sugar should they come across this post. The ugly truth is that a shaggy ginger mutt of indiscernable age picked up the family as we sat at the local ice cream parlor in Savyon, Israel, SUBURBAN Tel Aviv, 1981. We were minding our own business, but this dog was an Israeli street dog and knew how to deal with gringos. Every dog in town looked just like him, with either shorter or taller legs. Our seven-year-old daughter Rachel decided he was a Beagle, christened him Snoopy, and trotted him home. For the next nine years he was our dog. What did that mean in that time and place? It meant he had free run of the house, never saw a leash, oversaw the enlargement of his line, ate table scraps, made a pest of himself by running off to the schoolhouse and hiding under Rachel's desk till the teacher made her carry him home, barked his head off at will, wouldn't come in at night till he was bribed with salami, and so on.
Now Sugar is a purebred American Poodle, from a twenty generation line of purebreds and champions. She's no Snoopy, yet she's no Rufus either. Snoopy never got neutered and it killed him. He was a skirt-chaser, once wooed a neighboring German Shepherd who broke his leg. I think it was the only time we took him to the vet. Oh, and the time he got a back spasm sleeping on the cold tile in Rachel's room in wintertime. He lived the high life, but ladies' dogs always come to a sad end. And so it was with Snoopy. He was cut down in the prime of life (maybe, though we never did know his exact age, and he'd started losing his teeth, whether to old age or street fighting, we weren't sure), under the wheels of a speeding car. Bastards.
This will never happen to Sugar. She will be spayed at six months. She'll never taste the love of a dog, never meet the sire of her puppies. None of that. She will never take a risk, never win canine love. So who is better off? Sugar or Snoopy? It's hard to say. Personally, I suspect the whole uber-protection thing is really just a ruse to protect humans' shoes. Is it really for the dog? Please write in with opinions.
Sunday, January 16, 2011
Who's a Bitch?
Two days with Sugar. Two achingly long days of her adjustment (not over by any means). Not to mention the first night, when I sat up all night rocking her trembling in my bosom, and wondered how I got myself knocked up at my age. But so far I'm keeping it upbeat. It seems I am Woman, dog loves me, dog adores and worships, dog follows me everywhere with her glassy black eyes, though usually from the position of my shoulder or the crook of my arm. So what if she doesn't completely get the puppy paperss idea yet? I don't mind the scent of scouring powder mingling with my mani. Soon she will learn. As soon as I can figure out how to apply the instructions in the twelve books amassed in my Kindle about Potty Training.
Poodles, I'm told, are the geniuses of the canine world, second only to Border Collies (am I repeating myself? Did I write that already in an earlier post?) You will forgive. Am half brain dead from anticipated further sleep deprivation and so much COMPANY. Poodles are not companions, they're extra limbs, they feel they're nothing without their human. If you don't want your Poodle around all the time you're committing one of the worst kinds of animal abuse. Remember that one from a previous post?
Whoo! Quite stressful for a loner type. The conversation between us has grown overheated at bed time especially. So overheated, the rhetoric so whiny and howling at times, such as when we disagree politically, e.g. I explain to her liberally, in a low paniced voice that it is psychologically and educationally sound for her to be in her crate for the night and try to give her a little loving shove inside.But she does not lower the rhetoric at all. I fear she paid no attention whatsoever to the president's speech the other night, answering my polite statement about our differences with soft moans and high-pitched howls. Some genius. The message was geared to the understanding of five-year-olds, and Sugar's life is measured in dog years.
I believe I shall not go out to the Safeway within the next 24 hours. People in SUBURBAN New Jersey, you are so safe at this moment.
Sugar, my pet, if you ever read this (for you are a genius of the canine world and we start stunt training next week), I admit to you that the above is a pack of lies. For you are as sweet a pup as ever lived. This is the truth. But loners are also grumblers, so don't take any offense, dear. Mwa mwa, puppy kisses.
Poodles, I'm told, are the geniuses of the canine world, second only to Border Collies (am I repeating myself? Did I write that already in an earlier post?) You will forgive. Am half brain dead from anticipated further sleep deprivation and so much COMPANY. Poodles are not companions, they're extra limbs, they feel they're nothing without their human. If you don't want your Poodle around all the time you're committing one of the worst kinds of animal abuse. Remember that one from a previous post?
Whoo! Quite stressful for a loner type. The conversation between us has grown overheated at bed time especially. So overheated, the rhetoric so whiny and howling at times, such as when we disagree politically, e.g. I explain to her liberally, in a low paniced voice that it is psychologically and educationally sound for her to be in her crate for the night and try to give her a little loving shove inside.But she does not lower the rhetoric at all. I fear she paid no attention whatsoever to the president's speech the other night, answering my polite statement about our differences with soft moans and high-pitched howls. Some genius. The message was geared to the understanding of five-year-olds, and Sugar's life is measured in dog years.
I believe I shall not go out to the Safeway within the next 24 hours. People in SUBURBAN New Jersey, you are so safe at this moment.
Sugar, my pet, if you ever read this (for you are a genius of the canine world and we start stunt training next week), I admit to you that the above is a pack of lies. For you are as sweet a pup as ever lived. This is the truth. But loners are also grumblers, so don't take any offense, dear. Mwa mwa, puppy kisses.
Friday, January 14, 2011
Did You Know...
Dear Reader, I have important news for you. It must be news for you because it was for me, and there's no news report I haven't slavered over for years, my son being a journalist (oh! I did do the mothering thing once, I recall hazily, and it seems to have turned out fairly well, the line hasn't died out yet). Here it is. Did you know that, according to Barron's Complete Pet Owner's Manual to Poodles, "It is possible for a Poodle to adjust to living in a doghouse in a suburban backyard, but that would be a sad fate. Poodles crave the companionship of human beings, especially their own human beings. To attempt to make a Poodle into an occasional pet is to engage in one of the cruelest forms of animal abuse. Don't buy a Poodle if you don't want it to be near you!"
Uh-oh. At first, reading those words, tears of joy slipped from my eyes onto the page. It will be love. I will love and be loved. I can do this. But what if I can't? Is there a special canine unit of the PC enforcers or the ASPCA searching for lazy aging Jewish abusers who get itchy if dogs are too near? Will I be committing a PC crime? What's the penalty? Where's purgatory in the PC bible? Maybe I'm already in it, living in a SUBURB in New Jersey.
Just doing a little reading before I rush out to the store. Sugar-Suga-Shabbes arriving in, oh, five hours.
Uh-oh. At first, reading those words, tears of joy slipped from my eyes onto the page. It will be love. I will love and be loved. I can do this. But what if I can't? Is there a special canine unit of the PC enforcers or the ASPCA searching for lazy aging Jewish abusers who get itchy if dogs are too near? Will I be committing a PC crime? What's the penalty? Where's purgatory in the PC bible? Maybe I'm already in it, living in a SUBURB in New Jersey.
Just doing a little reading before I rush out to the store. Sugar-Suga-Shabbes arriving in, oh, five hours.
A Glancing thought
Have always been a clothes horse, it's the nearest I've lived to the Animal Kingdom. I did spend numerous summers on my grandparents' farm, where my grandmother kept hens and a healthy little business selling the eggs, but I had a complete and total aversion to both the chickens and the eggs, and in a way, to my grandmother.
But more on puppy pads after I've been to the pet store. Just realized I have to set up all the stuff I buy before we bring the puppy home. Poor little beast.
Two thoughts on women and Poodles (yes, the p is capitalized), neither germane to today's activities, but such are the ramblings of an old Jewess's mind:
On modesty (this I must bear in mind to support me through this tense day and night) Reinhold Niebuhr said it best: "Nothing that is worth doing can be achieved in our lifetime; therefore we must be saved by hope...Nothing we do, however virtuous, can be accomplished alone; therefore we are saved by love. No virtuous act is quite as virtuous from the standpoint of our friend or foe as it is from our standpoint. Therefore we must be saved by the final form of love, which is forgiveness." I hope to apply the latter to myself as well.
And a further thought on the French Poodle from Arthur Miller (well, he wasn't specifying the FP, but I am extrapolating): "Glamor, that trans-human aura or power to attract imitation, is a kind of vessel into which dreams are poured, and some vessels are simply worthier than others... A beautiful woman [Poodle?] can turn heads but real glamor has a deeper pull...Glamor is the power to rearrange people's emotions, which, in effect, is the power to control one's enviroment." I bow to Miller and will refrain from any ludicrous insights for now. But, I plan to put to use in my own life every sage's and solon's wisdom concerning French Poodles and life.
Soon, soon to the pet store, where a bewildering display of shopping in which I'm so far utterly uninterested awaits me. Maybe buying a French navy striped sweater-coat for Sugar-Suga-Shabbes will get me in the mood. Ah la la la la, as the Frenchwoman said when the cat slunk about her silk-stockinged ankles.
But more on puppy pads after I've been to the pet store. Just realized I have to set up all the stuff I buy before we bring the puppy home. Poor little beast.
Two thoughts on women and Poodles (yes, the p is capitalized), neither germane to today's activities, but such are the ramblings of an old Jewess's mind:
On modesty (this I must bear in mind to support me through this tense day and night) Reinhold Niebuhr said it best: "Nothing that is worth doing can be achieved in our lifetime; therefore we must be saved by hope...Nothing we do, however virtuous, can be accomplished alone; therefore we are saved by love. No virtuous act is quite as virtuous from the standpoint of our friend or foe as it is from our standpoint. Therefore we must be saved by the final form of love, which is forgiveness." I hope to apply the latter to myself as well.
And a further thought on the French Poodle from Arthur Miller (well, he wasn't specifying the FP, but I am extrapolating): "Glamor, that trans-human aura or power to attract imitation, is a kind of vessel into which dreams are poured, and some vessels are simply worthier than others... A beautiful woman [Poodle?] can turn heads but real glamor has a deeper pull...Glamor is the power to rearrange people's emotions, which, in effect, is the power to control one's enviroment." I bow to Miller and will refrain from any ludicrous insights for now. But, I plan to put to use in my own life every sage's and solon's wisdom concerning French Poodles and life.
Soon, soon to the pet store, where a bewildering display of shopping in which I'm so far utterly uninterested awaits me. Maybe buying a French navy striped sweater-coat for Sugar-Suga-Shabbes will get me in the mood. Ah la la la la, as the Frenchwoman said when the cat slunk about her silk-stockinged ankles.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
If Only I Were Nancy Mitford
If only I were Nancy Mitford I'd have a landscape full of dogs, guns, steeplechases, hounds, horns, pink coats and other paraphernalia of animalism in people to guide you through the strange new circumstance of a Jewess (no longer young), about to welcome into her home (and his) a toy white French poodle. Twelve weeks old. Two or three pounds. Shivering in a little crate at the Delta cargo terminal at Newark Airport, sitting in its mess at 8:15 PM on a Friday night. Shabbat. The poodle's first Shabbat! How lucky: to be reborn on Shabbat. She even gets a new name, though we're not sure what it is. Maybe Sugar? Suga? Shabbes?
This I need to sleep on. I'll think about it in the morning, or after I shlep off to buy all the real paraphernalia of my new life with animal, including...puppy papers. Ecchh. As the little boy from Sheffield said to the Duchess of Devonshire when asked, while on a school trip to see her working farm at Chatsworth, what he thought of the tiny calves sucking at the teats of their calm mother: "I never saw anything so disgustin' in my life. I'll never drink milk again."
This I need to sleep on. I'll think about it in the morning, or after I shlep off to buy all the real paraphernalia of my new life with animal, including...puppy papers. Ecchh. As the little boy from Sheffield said to the Duchess of Devonshire when asked, while on a school trip to see her working farm at Chatsworth, what he thought of the tiny calves sucking at the teats of their calm mother: "I never saw anything so disgustin' in my life. I'll never drink milk again."
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