Datebook: Monday, June 11th ~ 2007

Remember back in the winter, when I was a bit in the doldrums and decided to get another dog? Well, remind me what it was like before because I am fast losing that image of a settled life.

Some people, I am told, have affairs during mid-life reckoning, some get powerful sports cars when they previously owed a Buick LaSabre, and some get implants in various or all places.

I, in some odd twist on the concept, got a dog.

I am a dog person by design and choice. This is easy to confirm because most of my coffee mugs have one dog or another painted on them, I own and wear dog dresses, and I have several thousand dollars of dog art accosting my walls. (Most of this was before skating took over of course). I judge dog shows and people come to me with “dog” questions. The problem is, we have always had good dogs, translated to mean calm dogs. We have had Working breeds or as now, Non-sporting breeds. Working breeds are really like Non-sporting breeds—the essence of their day is deciding where they will snooze next, the bed, the new chair, or on a soft cushion.

With my daughter-going-away-to-college-which-really-means-she-will-never-come-home-because-she-is-skating-more-than-she-is-colleging (yes it can be a verb), and my son graduating from high school, and the freshman 15 finding its way to my thighs times 2, I decided I needed a little pick-me-up.

A little puppy pick-me-up. You know, the smell of puppy feet and puppy breath and a little pink tongue.

I know. I could have gone with that convertible. I could have gone with that spa membership or some Pilates and Yoga lessons.

I went with the Fox Terrier.

This is not a breed that I was really familiar with. In fact, you don’t see many of them in the real world. You do see their calmer cousins—the Jack Russells (now officially called Parsons Terriers).

I made some calls in my dog network and was told the same thing.

“Are you crazy? You don’t want to get one of those.”

This, of course, made it more appealing. I needed the distraction. I wanted to be pulled out of empty-nest dreading stupor into the demanding task of Frisbee throwing and Fly-dog.

I was guided to a breeder in California who had two litters at the time. She emailed photos and I was captivated by the liquid brown eyes of the canine infants.

“Wire nine hundred dollars and I’ll ship your little girl this weekend.”

Wire money? Since I don’t have secret bank accounts in the Cayman Islands, this was a new procedure for me. In the past, I have dealt with Credit Cards, Checks, and Money Orders. This is the modern age, I told myself, get used to it.

During the week, pre-money wiring, I talked with the breeder everyday or through email. She offered promises for all kinds of networking and support once the puppy arrived on the litany of new adventures that awaited—ear-gluing, table stacking (for show), grooming.

Once the puppy arrived, and we confirmed she was safe and healthy, we have never heard from the breeder and entourage again.

And I almost understand why.

Had she called the first month I would probably have told her it wasn’t working out. I did in fact need at least four hours of sleep every night and ten fingers, although I feared the lost of two that were constantly falling into the terrier’s mouth when she jumped waist high in her constant battle with trying to keep four feet off the ground. I would have told her it was a bit unsettling to have a 10 pound dog launch itself at you from shadowed corners and stairs, often getting tangled in your hair like those bats that originate in Transylvania. I would have told her that it is not humane to deliver an animal to people that does not EVER sleep, an animal in fact, who seems allergic to sleep.

The “wired money” now also makes sense. If I have charged the purchase I could probably have convinced a Visa customer service representative that I had been mislead, had an act of fraud committed against my person. This was not a dog delivered by American Airlines, but a sonic set of teeth attached to fur.

In desperation I did make one attempt to contact the breeder. After several attempts to leash break my Terror-ier I found it was a task I could not do. Attaching a cord to her collar was like lighting a gasoline soaked rag and trying to hold on to it.

“I just wanted to ask if there was some special lead you use to train the puppies…” I sighed into the answering machine on the other end. Like maybe Wonder Woman’s magic lasso I thought.

No response, no reply. I suspect the breeder has now retired and is living in Hawaii with a team of miniature poodles and a cache of wired money from people all over the country.

My daughter, home for the day, a week ago remarked, “Mom, there’s white hair on the back of the couch, how does she get up there?”

I sighed and looked at the ceiling fan remembering what I had found there the day before. But since this is my folly, I can’t admit just how far it has all gone, “I don’t think they’re Izzy’s hair, babes, I think they’re probably mine.”

Mombo