leg—the one with the titanium rod in it—began to ache. Not surprisingly, our temporarily crippled state led me to have some nagging second thoughts about the wisdom of getting such a large puppy who needed so much exercise. The monks, wise though they are, had provided no advice in their books for our situation. There is no Official Puppy Handbook for fifty-somethings.
Despite our infirmities, we couldn’t ignore our 6 a.m. alarm clock, which was the sound of Scout braying to be freed from her crate. Sore and cranky though we were, the sight of her jumping excitedly on her hind legs to greet us each morning brought instant
joy. Her favorite game was grabbing a toy in her teeth and prompting me to chase her outside and onto the lawn to play tug-of-war, often in my pajamas. (A new puppy, I quickly came to realize, gave me an unassailable license to be ridiculous in public.) During our morning play, she sometimes forgot about the growing strength of her jaws and drew blood on my hands and forearms.
Right before the summer ended, I had to travel to the Times ’s Washington bureau for a two-day business trip. I was worried about leaving Henry, who was still disabled, alone with Scout. I also knew I would miss her terribly. But work called, and so off I went.
That evening, when I called Henry to check on how things were going, he delivered an upsetting report. One of his clients was a nonprofit group in Connecticut, and he was racing to complete a proposal for the group in the next week or so. He was so consumed by Scout care that he was already tense about meeting the deadline; then, on top of that, he had made a truly awful discovery. Scout had chewed the frames and broken the lenses of his tortoiseshell glasses, which had slipped out of his pocket and onto the couch. “This is really more than I was prepared to handle,” he moaned. Luckily, his optician was able to make a replacement pair and ship the glasses to him overnight. In the
meantime, he was wearing prescription sunglasses at his desk in order to get some writing done.
I felt horribly guilty because I was out of town and unable to help. But I also had a deeper concern: Scout’s puppy destructiveness seemed to be reaching unacceptable levels. It was time to get professional help.
What happened next was a loopy canine version of O. Henry’s famous short story “The Gift of the Magi.” On the same day and without telling each other, Henry and I both put in a distress call to the same dog trainer.
I liked Diane Abbott the minute I heard her voice. For every tale of woe I recounted, her reaction was an amused giggle. Diane offered a puppy kindergarten class in a nearby Connecticut town, and in his initial conversation with Diane, Henry had been so favorably impressed that he had booked a home consultation with her for the next Saturday.
I had watched enough Cesar Millan to know that owners, almost always more than their dogs, are the ones who need training. So in the days leading up to our meeting with Diane, I made a list of all the questions and anxieties about Scout that I wanted to discuss with her.
By then, Henry and I agreed that we had to train Scout more rigorously than we had trained Buddy. It embarrassed me to remember that Buddy had flunked out of dog-training class, in large part because we were not consistent in practicing with him. We had also waited too long: we hadn’t signed him up for classes until he was three years old. Diane told us that she liked to begin training with pups as young as three months.
On the morning of Diane’s visit, Scout and I waited near our driveway. The woman who emerged from a tan hatchback had blond hair and looked like an athlete; reaching into her backseat, she pulled out a heavy, overstuffed bag and lugged it over to us. Scout immediately focused on the bag, practically jumping inside. Diane giggled, just as she had on the phone, which put me at ease. “She smells all my goodies,” Diane said.
Despite our infirmities, we couldn’t ignore our 6 a.m. alarm clock, which was the sound of Scout braying to be freed from her crate. Sore and cranky though we were, the sight of her jumping excitedly on her hind legs to greet us each morning brought instant
joy. Her favorite game was grabbing a toy in her teeth and prompting me to chase her outside and onto the lawn to play tug-of-war, often in my pajamas. (A new puppy, I quickly came to realize, gave me an unassailable license to be ridiculous in public.) During our morning play, she sometimes forgot about the growing strength of her jaws and drew blood on my hands and forearms.
Right before the summer ended, I had to travel to the Times ’s Washington bureau for a two-day business trip. I was worried about leaving Henry, who was still disabled, alone with Scout. I also knew I would miss her terribly. But work called, and so off I went.
That evening, when I called Henry to check on how things were going, he delivered an upsetting report. One of his clients was a nonprofit group in Connecticut, and he was racing to complete a proposal for the group in the next week or so. He was so consumed by Scout care that he was already tense about meeting the deadline; then, on top of that, he had made a truly awful discovery. Scout had chewed the frames and broken the lenses of his tortoiseshell glasses, which had slipped out of his pocket and onto the couch. “This is really more than I was prepared to handle,” he moaned. Luckily, his optician was able to make a replacement pair and ship the glasses to him overnight. In the
meantime, he was wearing prescription sunglasses at his desk in order to get some writing done.
I felt horribly guilty because I was out of town and unable to help. But I also had a deeper concern: Scout’s puppy destructiveness seemed to be reaching unacceptable levels. It was time to get professional help.
What happened next was a loopy canine version of O. Henry’s famous short story “The Gift of the Magi.” On the same day and without telling each other, Henry and I both put in a distress call to the same dog trainer.
I liked Diane Abbott the minute I heard her voice. For every tale of woe I recounted, her reaction was an amused giggle. Diane offered a puppy kindergarten class in a nearby Connecticut town, and in his initial conversation with Diane, Henry had been so favorably impressed that he had booked a home consultation with her for the next Saturday.
I had watched enough Cesar Millan to know that owners, almost always more than their dogs, are the ones who need training. So in the days leading up to our meeting with Diane, I made a list of all the questions and anxieties about Scout that I wanted to discuss with her.
By then, Henry and I agreed that we had to train Scout more rigorously than we had trained Buddy. It embarrassed me to remember that Buddy had flunked out of dog-training class, in large part because we were not consistent in practicing with him. We had also waited too long: we hadn’t signed him up for classes until he was three years old. Diane told us that she liked to begin training with pups as young as three months.
On the morning of Diane’s visit, Scout and I waited near our driveway. The woman who emerged from a tan hatchback had blond hair and looked like an athlete; reaching into her backseat, she pulled out a heavy, overstuffed bag and lugged it over to us. Scout immediately focused on the bag, practically jumping inside. Diane giggled, just as she had on the phone, which put me at ease. “She smells all my goodies,” Diane said.
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