Kyndall has been an extraordinarily good puppy. We’re proud of her, and it’s tempting to keep mum about the occasional disaster. But I write this blog in part because I want to record what it’s truly like to raise a puppy for life in service. So I guess I need to report on the seamy events of this morning.
She sleeps in a kennel in our bedroom and always wakes up early — in the 5:30 to 6 a.m. range. I too rise at dawn several days a week, but we’ve been trying to train her to remain in her kennel later for those rare occasions when we can sleep in. This morning when I heard soft whimpers being emitted from her corner of the room, I felt annoyed and pretty confident she was testing us — trying to train us for the schedule she’d prefer to keep. I was all but certain she had no genuine need to be led downstairs and out into the backyard. (I knew for a fact that she had pooped twice upon rising Tuesday morning, then again during her afternoon walk with Steve, and then AGAIN right before bedtime — an almost unprecedented quadfecta of puppy elimination.)
So I hissed, “Quiet!” and she was quiet. Minutes passed. Until more soft whimpers emerged.
I was awake by then; climbed out of bed. But before moving to her kennel to release her, I took my time getting dressed. I put on my gym socks and shoes, and I tied the long laces securely.
I released Kyndall from her kennel, clipped a leash to her collar, then led her down the stairs. In the kitchen, I paused to take something out of my purse. And as I did so, she POOPED! In the kitchen!!! Right in front of the refrigerator!!@!
“NO!” I shrieked, “Noooooo!!!” I yanked her to Steve’s office and the patio beyond. As we moved, she engaged in a virtual bombing raid all along the way.
This was an almost unimaginable violation of the Well-Behaved Puppy Code, a transgression the likes of which she’s never done before, even in her earliest days with us. (Tucker was so mortified he took straight to his bed and refused to follow Kyndall and me outside.) I dragged her out to the lower yard (aka the canine toilet), and she really tried to defecate again for me, this time in the proper place. It was to no available, so much had been eliminated in the house. (It took a good 10 minutes to collect and depose of it and properly sanitize.)
Steve and I understand that Kyndall didn’t want to do this; she tried to alert us that she needed to go out. What mystifies us is the cause. (She did NOT have diarrhea and clearly is not sick.)
It’s a minor mystery. What bothers me more is not the grossness of the act or the unpleasantness of cleaning it up. (When you’ve raised as many puppies as we have, you toughen up.) It’s that we didn’t know better than to ignore a 7-month-puppy who was asking to be taken out to relieve herself. Or that I was surprised by the consequences.