Getting to Know the Neighbors

People are the best thing on Earth.  The little interactions, kindnesses and shared moments make life good.  The problem is, I'm not a people person.  I like teaching my students.  I've loved going overseas for various volunteer trips.  But without a defined role, I'd rather stay quiet and in the shadows.

Nowhere is that more true than in my own neighborhood.  Growing up in the country, I had exactly three neighbors.  Now, I estimate there are 60+ homes in my immediate vicinity.  I know very few of those people.  And I don't know how to meet them.

Unexpectedly, my dog has connected me to the neighborhood in ways I never could.  He's a cute puppy.  People want to pet him, to say hello.  I've had a woman stop in her tracks while jogging to come tell me Winston looked just like the yellow lab she had that just passed away.

In the neighborhood Winston has joined a pack of other young, rapscallion puppies.  Four other people on my street have young dogs (three of those are labs or have lab in them), and we often meet in the field nearby.

Around the corner from my house sits a duplex.  On the porch of that duplex often sits an old man and his wife.  I had never spoken to them before until I started walking Winston by.  They would never fail to tell me how much they like my dog, and then share about their own.  The last time I walked by, the man asked me if I'd like some plums from his tree on the way back.  Of course I would!

On my way back he was waiting for me with a big bag of plums.  We formally introduced ourselves.  He told me how much he liked my dog.  And he told me his dog was his best friend with undeniable solemnity and sincerity.

He said he and his wife are realtors, and he put his card in the bag.  Then he added, "Well, retired" with a smile.  I picked out his card.  On the back, in shaky old man script, he had written "retired realtors".

It wasn't much, but it matters.  His small kindness to me made my day better and me feel like I mattered.  I could easily he see he felt good about doing it.  We both left with smiles on our faces.  I think those small interactions are the cornerstone of a happy and contented life.

 We all have opportunities like Jake had everyday to bless someone, no matter how small the blessing.  We just have to be brave enough, or slow down enough, to look for them.

The Puppy: 6 Months Later

Right before I got a dog my mother told me that pet owners have less stress and live longer.

At times with Winston, that seems impossible.  Right now he's making noises like he might barf.  All this week he's woken me up at 4 to go to the bathroom (better than the alternative).  I come home, and he's chewed the deck.  He knows he's not supposed to do it.  I know this because as soon as I open the door he starts his guilt walk, a low, scooting waddle like a ferret on rohypnol.  Or like a cobra trying to charm me.  So I look around for what he did wrong, find the chewed wood, and take him over there for some firm "No!"-ing.  

Now dog people might tell me won't know what I'm talking about if I didn't catch him in the act.  But Winston is smart, I think he knows.  Or at least has some idea.  Now he gives me puppy dog eyes, head cocked to one side, tail wagging.  He wants forgiveness.  I pet him and all is well.

Now scratch my belly!

People say labs are people pleasers, and that side of Winston becomes more apparent each day.    He attends my every move, to the point of annoyance.  Sometimes I just watch him watch me.  In all things he wants to make me happy.  Not being able to do what I ask stresses him out, like when I tried to teach him roll over.  He pawed here and there, snorted and turned in circles.  But once he did, he jumped for joy seeing how happy I was.

The bottom line with Winston is this: I clean up a lot of his poop, and I'm sure glad I have him.  He eats my deck, but he loves me unconditionally.  All in all, I'm probably getting the better end of the deal.

Though I'm 29, this is the first time in my life I've been the sole provider for any living thing bigger than a gold fish.  Yes I had dogs and cats growing up, but my mom took care of those.  I've never had a pet since then.  No kids either.  And though he is just a dog, Winston has helped me understand a little better the meaning of unconditional love.

I never intended for this blog to be about dogs.  I've looked through blogger, it seems like every other blog is dedicated to some four legged creature.  When I started this blog I was in the middle of starting a teaching career and running a non-profit.  It was about social change, changing the world, etc etc.  And now, about Winston pooping on deck.  There is probably some significance to that, but I am too tired to find it.

Winston has taken strides

Winston has taken strides.

"Lay down" has been added to his repetoire of tricks.  Compliance is not immediate.  He paws the air vigorously, thinking I mean shake, before lowering himself.  This is done with much wiggling and writhing, channeling Uriah Heap, though to cuter effect.

Fetching has improved tremendously.  We've gone fetching a ball from kitchen to living room, to chasing the Chuck-It across vast expanses.  The ball is not yet willingly returned.

A consistent response to "Come!"eludes me.  Our success rate hovers around 70%.  Sometimes he gets this coy look in his eye.  He sits there in a weird, lumpy way.  Not like a normal dog, but slouching on his butt, like an off-balance egg with legs.  His belly pops out, I can see his wiener, and his lazy eye gets really lazy.  I feel as uncomfortable as a lady on the New York subway might.  He just sits like that, ignoring me.

I try to grab him, he runs.  Then plops.  Off-kilter. Belly out.  Eye wonky.   I approach. He runs.  Repeat.

I've learned to solve this problem by lots of swearing to myself.  Usually if I go inside, he's at the door in minutes.  Then one of two things will happen.

He may, knowing he was bad, look at me with puppy eyes and tuck his tail, saying "I'm sorry!"  Though I want to strangle him, I give him lots of love, and bacon flavored treats.

More frequently, he bounds into the house gumming the thing that drove him to disobedience.  A turd.   First it was a deer turd, which crumpled into a million pellets on the carpet.  Next, a flat, round turd of unknown, perhaps bovine origin.   Today, a deer turd in the shape of a human turd, which confused and scared me.

Still, I am glad I have a puppy.

I Have a Puppy

For years I wanted a dog.  One of my first memories is the tail of my big, massive yellow lab knocking me to the ground again and again.   Pluto was a faithful and true companion, suffering the adolescence of his boy:  I peed on him once (got a spanking), stuck him with a fish hook once (on accident), and tried to ride him like a pony.  I watched him age until he looked like a noble lion.  I held him in my arms as he took his last breath.

Moving from an apartment to a house three years ago made made dog ownership a possibility. I recently polled my Facebook friends, seeking the pros (good friend, always loves you, fun to play with) and cons (chew everything, poop and pee everywhere, hair everywhere, ruined home value!) of dog ownership .  

Analytics went out the window when I saw his little puppy face.  Tiny, sleepy and yellow, I knew he was the one.  I bought him, all of 8 weeks old.  

2 months later, he is no longer sleepy or as little.  Still hindsight tells me it was a fantastic decision.

I love coming home to him.  When he sees me through the sliding glass door his excitement is palpable.  He can barely contain his little puppy self.  Wiggle, Wiggle, Wiggle, Wiggle. Wiggle.  His whole body says “I MISSED YOU AND I WAS BORED AND I’M SO HAPPY YOU ARE HERE.”  

He smells nice.  He cuddles with me.  He chases a ball like there is no tomorrow.  He sits and shakes like a proper gentleman.   

Yes, he is expensive.  He got worms and the accompanying vet bills.  He eats lots.  He bites everything like a zombie.  He poops in my yard.  He poops on my deck. He poops the grossest poops I’ve ever seen, stinking and shapeless yet disturbingly alive looking.  

Sometimes he won’t come, and just sits and looks at me instead.  He has a bad habit of jumping on everyone he sees.

But all of that is outweighed by his love and companionship.  

Training him is a blast.  I love imagining what he thinks.  It goes like this:  

I hold a treat in my hand.

“Yummy!  Let me sniff it!  Let me sniff it!  Yummy!  Let me eat it!  Ahhhhhhh!”

Sit, I say.

“Sit....  Sit....  If I put my butt down I can eat it?  If I put my butt down I can eat it!’”  

Shake I say, grabbing his paw.

“Mmmm tasty flesh.  Will eat, mmm,  Oh wait that’s his paw.  Don’t eat his paw.  Don’t do it.  So hungry... Don’t do it!  Must bite!”

No! I yell

“Noooooooo!  He said noooooo!  I hate that word!  Noooooo!   He’s grabbing my paw!  My butt is down why am I not eating!  I’m so hungry!  I’ll gnaw my own paw to ease the pain.”

Shake, I say, grabbing his paw.

“I don’t want to eat my own paw!  I want the treat!  My butt is down, look I’ll wiggle it!”

Shake!

“Ah ha...  If I put my paw here...  I get the treat....  Very devious.  Very humiliating!  I’ll never give....  TREAT YUM!  I’ll shake!! FEED ME FEED ME, OH GOD YES!”

I imagine things like this all the time.