Puppies don’t walk much. And they don’t even run so much as thunder about. But mostly they just hop around like popcorn.
“HEEEEELLP! HEEEEELLP! HEEEEELLP! We’re DYING!!!!”
If puppy behavior could be translated into words, this is what my puppy morning would have sounded like today. The cry comes from the bedding area where they sleep in our laundry room. A temporary barrier keeps them there, and this they are trying to climb, because they hear movement out in the human part of the house.
“DYING! Literally DYING!!!!”
The humans are bustling, preparing for several things that will happen simultaneously: Get the Bigs out and fed and then tucked away, so as not to interrupt the Littles’ parade. Prep the softened dogfood, plop it in the party tray like some kind of stinky bean dip. Make sure a clean blanket is ready for Mama Jazz to lay on, toys aren’t in tripping range, humans are fueled by coffee, “bean dip” set and ready….
“HEEEEEeeeeelllp! DYING!!!!”
The shrieks immediately cease as I open the door and greet the Littles.
“Good morning, my good puppies!”
The Seven begin to wiggle and wag, a few of them still faintly complaining of Dying, and all are trying their best to scale the wall.
They cluster around my feet as I lift them out, one at a time, as fast as I can.
“Joy, joy, JOY!!! Oh, joy! She still lives! JOYYYY!”
And they try their best to get under my feet, all Seven at once, as we move toward the living area.
Once in a while I turn back; they all turn back with me. Feint left; they go left. But out in the hall, like kindergarteners who remember there is candy at the end of the race, they pick up the pace and outrun me around the corner where the bean dip blocks their path. Every single time, my brain thinks of rat plagues as these beautiful Littles, fur gleaming, thunder forth.
If puppies had brakes, theirs would screech.
“Errrrrch! What’s this? What’s this? Hey, guys! WHAT’S THIS?!!”
Noses tentatively touch the cold, wet food, but the puppies aren’t quite sure food is more important than joyful leaping at this exact moment, and while a few get a head start, most run laps around the sofa, crash into each other a little, and leap up at my legs.
“Love me! Love me! LOVE ME! Ooohhh, you are so Wonderful! I love you! I LOVE YOU!”
They wag and claw and try to climb me, until I can’t help but crouch down and love each one with kisses, scratches and pets.
But I am outclassed entirely when Mama Jazz trots into the room and braces for the attack. The Seven charge and fight their way to the bar. Don’t picture the sweet newborn love-fest of a few weeks ago. These guys are in the Milk Sucking State Championships, and it’s an all-out, no rules competition, elbows allowed and may the best puppy win. Bodies stiffen, little rhythmic grunts keep pace with the sucking, and tails slowly rise like gas gages as tummies swell.
Nobody’s watching, but the winner wanders off in quest of other adventures, and soon all Littles are exploring the upstairs world with great gusto, fresh from a good night’s sleep, and now fueled by milk and bean dip.
“Fight me! Fight me!” they silently yell at one another, and pouncing and wrestling and bite playing and tumbling commence in little furry knots around my living room.
Hurried footsteps draw my eye to some little frantic guy.
“Where’s the bathroom? WHERE’S THE BATHROOM?” He frantically looks left and right as he runs, always, always, ALWAYS away from the potty pads. I chase. He grunts. I scold. “I love you!” he whispers, and pounces on my wet wipe as I clean up.
Here comes the fun part.
Mama Jazz has long since escaped from the vicinity, first giving me The Look, akin to a
conspiratorial wink. We seize an opportunity when the puppies are distracted and dash together down the hall, tucking Jazz into her private suite with a food bowl all for her. We love each other a bit, and she settles in for her break as I dash back to swig some more coffee and rejoin the joyful mayhem.
But this year, THIS YEAR! This year I have a secret weapon. An ally. A dark, eager assistant waiting quietly in the wings.
Her name is Oakley. Well, officially “Annie Oakley Straight Shootin’ Girl,” if you look at her papers. She knows how to play like a puppy, because 15 months ago, she was one. And Nanny Oakley, as we now call her, CAN NOT WAIT to have her turn with the pups.
With a quiet “Easy…” I release the secret weapon.
Puppies don’t walk much. And they don’t even run so much as thunder about. But mostly they just hop around like popcorn, jumping and leaping, attacking, exploring. They are everywhere, having become Very Comfortable with my Great Room, and wandering into adjacent hallways and such. Usually to pee. But as Nanny Oakley makes her rounds like the Pied Piper, the Littles make quick U-turns and follow her to the blanket where the toys lie at the ready. There begins the most amazing little vignette of joy.
“Pick me! Pick me!” The Littles vie for her attention, leaping forward in attack. Nanny Oakley rolls over, receiving their advances and reaching out to bat cat-like at them, introducing them to her favorite toys, teasing them with gentle bites as they come for love and play again and again.
And here is where I smile and go wash dishes, put my makeup on, clean out the puppy bedroom—maybe even journal as I finish that coffee! Because Nanny Oakley is On The Job.
“Hey Oakley! Watch this!” Some little black furball dives for her ball, while another crests her belly and slides down the other side of her sleek, black fur. They are miniature Oakleys, having the same parentage, and she shows them how to be Bigger, entrancing them with her play and grooming them like a Mother.
While she directs Activity Time, I make occasional laps around the room armed with paper towels and wet wipes, looking left and right for little brown messes camouflaged on my brown, wooden floor and watching for puddles to catch the light. Nanny Oakley finds them more quickly with her excellent nose, and she points them out to me—I’m not even kidding.
“Missed one…” She points it with her nose, and circles back to the Littles, where she stimulates the shy, plays heartily with the courageous, and gently corrects the unruly.
I know when the Littles have begun wandering off to nestle under the sofa and nap, because Oakley finds me and reports in: “All but two down. Watch that Kua; he’s a livewire today. Check on River; he may be stuck under Dad’s recliner. Can I help clean the sleeping room?”
I am writing this later in the day, and Nanny Oakley keeps wandering out in my quiet living room to sniff the air. She goes back and lies down. She is wondering where the puppies are.
They couldn’t know that today was the day when the puppies would move to the Big Kennel in the basement. Until now, a nearby nook in the laundry room kept them within reach, and they gradually learned to be a part of our human world. I love having them at hand and underfoot, but they are just outgrowing the space up here. Time to give them a larger kennel for sleep, and a larger playroom for cavorting about. Time, too, for a door to the great outdoors, where the best potty habits can be built, and where weeds and new textures provide new toys to explore. Time to introduce crates and simple commands like “Here,” “Don’t”, and “Sit.” Time to give our houseguests a quiet place to stay where they don’t have to watch where they step quite so carefully!
It’s the home stretch. Eighteen more days of Finishing School. Nanny Oakley and Mama Jazz and Jim and Kathy will all be working hard to fill in the educational gaps and give the Seven Littles the best preparation we can. Eighteen short (and sometimes long) days before we begin kissing them all for the last time.
And I’m already tearing up.
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