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Wednesday, June 30, 2010
First Day
RAEBERT. The other day I went all curmudgeon in the comments, and I feel obligated to explain. We were about to take delivery on a deerhound puppy, which should have been (and was) a joyful experience, but I was also afraid. I didn't feel like turning the page so quickly on Psmith. Scots are great at guilt. Every moment of relieving anticipation also felt like a betrayal. Confusing and contradictory emotions make Scots angry -- at themselves and the world. All my own posts for a couple of weeks have been distractions. I know some of you are saying, "All this for a dog? Get a grip."
Yes, I know the difference between dogs and people. I have a two-year-old granddaughter. I know the difference. But I also know that we encompass and control the lives of our dogs. The responsibility is total because dogs spend their whole lives being two or so. I know I spent time in my office doing business work, and InstaPunk, which could have been more time with Psmith and the others. I could have walked him more than I did, spent more time on the couch with a hand on his head or haunch. Could I have made his incredibly short life better? Did I even deserve another deerhound? And what the hell is so great about InstaPunk anyway? I was spoiling for a fight. With myself.
But now the new boy is here. It's our first full day together. I'm not in the office. I'm in the media room with Mrs. CP's laptop tricked up with attachable real keyboard, mouse, and power pack. He's snoozing on a rug in the hall, eight feet away. (She's so much wiser than I am. She planned the whole thing.) He's not Psmith. He's not a plug-and-play replacement of Psmith. He's his own man already. And he does not make me sad. When we took delivery from the breeder at a park on the Delaware River (three hours worth of juggling seven leashes), I met three of his litter mates and (surprise) two delightful whippets who looked tiny next to our greyhound Molly, whom we took with us to ease our boy's transition away from the only life he had known thus far. The bonding was immediate. He clambered up on the picnic table bench to give me a grave kiss minutes after we met him. When the time came to put him in the car and carry him away from everything past he curled up next to Molly and waited to go home. He ate like a champ, slept all the night through on the bed, and had the stairs conquered, up and down, by seven this morning. He likes people more than dogs. Although he discovered another puppy in the bathroom mirror this morning and whined at it. Maybe he's missing the other puppies a bit. Otherwise, he's on top of the transition, calm, affectionate, the ancient infant of his kind. He already knows to ask when he wants to go out. He's a smart boy. And he'll be a big boy, too. His paws are enormous, though he's as narrow as a roof beam. A four-month-old, forty pound roof beam. With eyes like the memory of earth.
I only had one bad moment. The breeder, who had spent well over an hour on the phone with Mrs. CP before agreeing to release "the pick of the litter" to us, explained that ordinarily her husband would also have spent an equal amount of time on the phone with us. But then they both read the post about Psmith. After that, she said, her husband told her, "They can have any puppy they want." I thought piercingly of the lost boy and couldn't speak, but I was glad at that moment for this blog, however little value it may have in the grand scheme of things.
It doesn't matter if there's a grand scheme of things or not. What it always comes down to is our scheme of things. Right now he's squeaking his squeak toy. The breeder says that's a sign of a courser. I don't care. If he wants to course, we'll do it. If he doesn't, we'll find other things he likes to do. He's been hunting for Psmith, from room to room, knowing there's a deerhound here. Very soon he will realize that the deerhound here is him.
The greyhounds know it already. And so do we.
I thank you all for your forebearance. Truly.
First photo at home:
We listened to bagpipes together. He didn't bolt. He did the regal thing instead.
Those of you who get it get it. Those of you who don't won't. I'm cool with that. Everything's all better now.
