Puppy Love

My quest for the world's best second dog ended last fall. For several months, I'd gone back and forth on adding another canine member to my little family, debating among no dog, a companion dog or some sort of hunting dog.

In the end, the companion won out. I realized that hunting dogs, like a pointer or a springer, are dogs meant to have a job. They are bred for action in the field, not lazy spring days sleeping in until 10 a.m. So with neither the time, nor the expertise to turn an energy-laden pup into a lean, mean, hunting-machine, I settled on finding a four-legged friend for me and Hoops, my Golden Retriever-German Shepherd mix.

So off to the local animal shelters and rescue centers I went. After a few weeks of searching, I found him - a six-week old red heeler mix named Helton. I think it was the name that suckered me. After all, what normal Front Range resident didn't get swept up in baseball fever as the Colorado Rockies, and first baseman Todd Helton, marched on to the World Series? On the very day I just missed getting Series tickets, up pops a little e-mail from the local shelter. "Love the Rockies? Come meet Helton!" it said. It was an omen. It was fate. The Rockies would win the Series and I had found my perfect puppy.

Um, no, not so much. My beloved Rox ended up losing to the Boston Red Sox in an abysmal 4-game sweep, and I ended taking home a squirmy yellow dog that looks like a bat. Funny how fate can send you on a detour.

To get to the puppies, I had to walk right past the adult dogs waiting to be adopted. I barely glanced at the older puppies as I pressed on to meet Helton. But one glance had me laughing out loud. There sat Chrissy, a four-month old lab mix. She had yellow fur and giant-bat like ears. She looked like a cross between Old Yeller and Piglet from the Winnie-the-Pooh cartoons. The dog was positively ridiculous-looking. When she heard me giggle, she cocked her head, first to one side, then the other. I was about to move on to the puppy room when I swear, that darn dog put her paw on the gate and smiled at me. Yes, she saw me turn to leave and she smiled at me.

Well, it was kind of smile. More like a half-snarl, half-toothy grin. Then she wagged her tail and pressed her nose to the gate. I held out my hand and received just one soft-wet nose kiss before she wandered back to the back of her kennel and flopped on the floor.

So on to the puppies and home with Helton the wonder pup. But somehow, after Little-Miss-Sunshine in the other room, the sleepy blob of heeler puppy just didn't have any appeal. Uh-oh, I thought, I just fell in love. Puppy love.

The next night, Hoops had a new sister and the yellow puppy had a new home and new name. The smiling wonder was named Roxy, fittingly named after my beloved, if beleaguered, Colorado Rockies.

Life has since been a whirlwind. Roxy has certainly brightened my life with her silly smiles and puppy antics. I've learned that labs have incredible intestinal fortitude -- she''s eaten reading glasses, a paperback novel, a calculator, a CD and three pages of scrapbook stickers. She might have gotten away without me knowing about the stickers, except for the wayward R, K and B stuck to the top of her head. I'm convinced she was trying to spell the word BARK.

I've also learned to be careful what you wish for. For two months, Roxy refused to go up and down stairs, choosing instead to sit at the top and howl until her humans returned from the basement. My niece and nephew taught Roxy that stairs aren't so scary after all. In fact, stairs were so much fun she couldn't wait until morning to run up and down them. Did you know that a 30-pound dog running up and down 15 stairs at 2:30 in the morning sounds roughly like a herd of bison stampeding through your camp site?

And I learned that while the verdict is still out on old dogs learning new tricks, old dogs can indeed teach old tricks to new puppies. Hoops has systematically taught all of his bad habits to Roxy. She's learned how to beg for yogurt cups, hog the bed and last, but certainly not least, how to leave her rawhide in the middle of the hallway where I'm sure to step on it in the middle of the night. Together, they've invented a game I like to call "Make the Mistress Yell," where they will slowly stalk one another around the coffee table until the cue is given. Then they race to the bedroom, leap across the bed, tear down the stairs, circle the recliner and haul back up the stairs to the living room, giving nary a thought to whatever, or whomever, might be in their path. The first dog to bleed or get nabbed by me and thrown outside is considered the loser.

I do however have high hopes for her future hunting potential. She accompanied me one day while I worked the Springer check station last fall. The dog definitely has some hunting heritage in her, she managed to flush and retrieve every last pheasant part on the place. She'd pounce on a wing that had blown free of the trash can, then triumphantly return to me, dropping her bounty at my feet in delight.

Actually, she has caught on rather quickly to basic obedience, and listens well when we are out of the house and working outdoors. I'm crate-training Roxy, and I've decided that's the only way to go. I shudder to think of what my house would look like if she were left to her own devices during the day. The words tornado and total destruction come to mind.

Maybe next fall we can move on to live birds, if she doesn't eat my shotgun first. Even if I don't have a new hunting weapon, I have another source of unconditional love and a three-ring circus in my living room that is better entertainment than any show I'll ever get on cable.

Man, I should have gotten a Springer.