Puppy-raising involves many milestones, but few surpass the four-month mark. Adagio reached it yesterday, and today he got his final puppy shots. He should henceforth be protected against rabies, parvo, and other ills that can take down dogs. He can begin venturing into stores, restaurants, movie theaters, and other places where merely ordinary dogs cannot venture.
His weight at the vets was just over 30 pounds, which means he’s almost 200% larger than he was when we got him two months ago.
Even more remarkable than his size is the change in his behavior. Our first few puppy classes were a nightmare of barking, whining, squirming, and general chaos. But in class last night, he made me proud. He trotted along nicely for our exercises outdoors on the leash. He waited at doorways. He came when, seated in a chair across the room, I called him.
He’s still not perfect; he still occasionally pees on the floor indoors and still is overly entranced by the taste of twigs and stones.
The breeder-caretaker of our newest (8th!) CCI puppy, Adagio, took this wonderful photo of him and his littermates, I assume shortly before delivering the gang to Santa Rosa for the final steps before their dispersal. It makes me feel even more compassion for the pups, as each of them heads out on the road to a life of service. No matter how well their adventures turn out (and Steve and I are starting, as usual, with the highest hopes), it still seems sad to split up such concentrated cuteness.
But disperse they must. At 5 am this morning, Adagio and his sister Apple (4th from left above) were fed their breakfast and ushered into the little kennel in which they would fly south. In the past, most of Steve’s and my new pups have been picked up at the San Diego airport by a volunteer, driven to the Southwest Regional headquarters in Oceanside, bathed, and cuddled until we arrived to collect them. This time, however, we followed the lead of Cyndy Carlton, who’ll be raising Apple (her dozenth CCI pup, and the granddaughter of Emerald, whom Cyndy also raised). Many times Cyndy had collected her puppy directly from the airport. So a little after 10:30, Steve and I met her at the air freight center just south of Lindbergh’s Terminal 1. Also joining us were our videographer friends, Bob and Alberto. (They hope one day to make a documentary about puppy-raising.)
As we waited, we chatted about how many CCI puppies are flown from northern California to cities all over the country — somewhere between 700 and 1000, we guessed. It made me feel a little nervous to imagine something going awry — having Apple and Adagio wind up in Minnesota, say, as a result of some ghastly mix-up. Happily, their kennel was unloaded from a transport van shortly after 11. I could just make out little black tails in it, wagging.
Cyndy signed the paperwork, and we transferred the kennel outside, opened the door, and peeked inside with bated breath.
One of the little ones popped up and stepped right over the threshold. A quick check of the undercarriage revealed this to be — Adagio! Apple was trembling, but she seemed to settle down, once she was in Cyndy’s arms.
I think meeting a new puppy is a wonderful thing.
After giving the little ones a chance to relieve themselves, we drove to the home of another super-experienced puppy-raiser, Jan Ford. She runs a home daycare center, and her human youngsters were thrilled to meet the new babies.
We had planned to bathe Adagio and Apple, but they seemed pretty clean, and the day was chilly. Instead we let them race around, playing with the children and tussling with each other. In almost every picture I’d seen of Adagio up with his litter, he was flaked out, looking comatose. But this brief session erased any fears I’d had that his sleepiness was permanent.
After a while, we drove him home, eager to see how 13-year-old Tucker would react to yet another youngster intruding on his dotage. It went as I expected. Tuck’s tail beat fast, expressing hospitality, if mixed with just a hint of nervousness. (“Will this twerp try to nurse from me?”) It’s way to early to know if they’ll turn out to be bros. But Adagio’s behavior was impeccable.
He gobbled down his lunch, did a little bit of exploring the back yard (on a leash, under our close scrutiny), then settled down for a long nap. The evening is just beginning. The first one with a new puppy is often a rough one. For us too, the adventure begins again.
We may not have our new puppy yet, but it sure feels like he’s on his way. And we now know his name and color: Adagio and black! Steve and I have raised every other gender/color combo for CCI — yellow girls and boys and black females, but this will be our first black male. I’m sure we’ll love him (though Steve predicts that Mr. Tucker will be less than overjoyed by the advent of a little boy dog.)
We’ve received and have signed the contract with CCI (in which we promise we will not only raise Adagio until November 1, 2019 — but will give him back then). Yesterday a package full of goodies arrived — halters and two sizes of capes, flea and worming medicine, a pristine new Kong and tug-of-war toy, and more.
Normally, we would fill out the forms and get the goodies when we picked up the puppy. But on January 10, we will instead go directly to the airport to collect him there. That should be interesting!
In the meantime, our fellow puppy-raiser Cyndy Carlton, who will be raising Adagio’s sister, Apple, has told us she plans to journey up to central California to visit the breeder-caretaker next week. She’s promised to bring back photos, which I look forward to sharing.
Early in our CCI puppy-raising career, Steve and I learned about the curious custom sometimes practiced when a female dog goes into heat right before her turn-in and thus cannot participate in the matriculation ceremonies. When all the other 40 or 50 puppy raising teams line up and walk their trainee to the front of the auditorium, to be recognized by the assembly, those who don’t have a dog because their girl has been banished to Sex Jail often will join in the procession carrying a stuffed animal.
We thought that was pretty silly. When Dionne went into heat right before her turn-in in May of 2014, we just skipped all the festivities and felt sad. When Beverly went into heat two weeks ago, we felt awful. One silver lining was that we thought it would free us to go see a close friend from the East Coast who was planning to be in LA that day.
Then our friend learned she wouldn’t be free. With nothing keeping me from attending the ceremonies, I realized I wanted to go, to salute and support our cohort of puppy-raisers who’ve been on the same journey over the past year and a half. Attending classes with them, parading and venturing out on field trips, sharing puppy socials, trading problems and funny stories all creates a bond. In several cases that association extends back through multiple dogs over now a dozen years.
Steve agreed to join me, and it struck me: if we were going, we might as well go all the way. I informed Becky Hein, the puppy program director, that we would like to join in the procession with a stuffed dog.
Yesterday we hit bad traffic driving to Oceanside and arrived at the QLN Conference Center only minutes before noon, when the program was scheduled to start. Still, Becky spotted me and gave me the minor paperwork I needed. She also led me to a box containing several plush animals.
I chose one almost as big as a real retriever puppy. Early in the program, Steve flipped it over into the cradling position. He pretended to brush its teeth, file its toenails, and clean its ears, as he has done for real with so many of our puppies. (He shoulders virtually all the grooming chores.) It made me giggle. This was helpful. It’s all too easy to cry from the emotion that drenches these convocations.
After a while we joined the line-up, hugging our friends and whispering as we inched up to the stage. A couple of folks commented on our puppy’s perfect behavior. When we finally made it to the front, I heard scattered laughs in the audience; Becky explained that the real Beverly was already in the kennels.
Attending the CCI Graduation events takes a big bite out of a day. Driving up and back and finding a parking place takes almost two hours, and the program lasts for close to 90 minutes. We could have built in more time for socializing. But I was glad we spent the time we did. We didn’t foresee it when we first got involved with CCI, but not just the dogs but also their human caretakers have become an important source of happiness in our life.
When we got home I found an email from the assistant puppy program manager with good news: we’ll get our first report on how Beverly is doing in the professional training program on November 29. When that arrives, I’ll share it in another blog post.
Once before, two puppies ago, we had a female go into heat right before she was scheduled to be turned in for Advanced Training. That was Dionne. The circumstances were a bit different from what we’ve experienced with Beverly. Dionne started bleeding almost three weeks before our scheduled separation, so we had some hope that her heat would end in time for us all to participate in the ceremonies. (It didn’t.) With Beverly just 10 days out from turning in, there was no such hope. Our goodbyes thus felt different.
After confirming Monday that Beverly was undeniably bleeding, I called CCI in the afternoon. Jules, the assistant puppy program director, sounded compassionate, but when I offered to keep Beverly at our home for a few extra days (since the campus is under construction and human/dog teams are already there, working together in preparation for the upcoming graduation), she gently pointed out that the rules are inflexible: all females in season must be in a kennel — either at CCI or some surrogate facility.
I acceded, promising that Steve and I would deliver Beverly at 11 the next morning (Tuesday). But then I was struck by fear: would she be all alone? (Normally no other dogs in heat are present in the kennels right before graduation, since CCI needs all the spaces for the dogs who will shortly be turned in.) The thought of Beverly in what would effectively be solitary confinement horrified me.
Jules said she would check. Less than two minutes later, the phone rang again. “There’s a delightful Golden here already who’s also in heat,” she announced. “She’ll have a great time!”
Feeling slightly better, Steve and I packed up Beverly, her cape, and a few other odds and ends and ushered her into the van for our last ride together. Normally she travels in the cloth kennel that we keep in the back of the vehicle, but this time I invited her to curl up next to me on the floor in front of the middle seat. She snuggled close, casting glances that almost looked concerned, as if she suspected something was going on. (Probably she was just startled by not being in her normal space.)
Alberto, our documentarist friend who has filmed our puppy-raising activities for several years, accompanied us. Up at the Oceanside facility, Jules ushered us all into the interior lobby, where we chatted for several minutes. Again, Jules exuded empathy for the unwelcome early goodbyes. The puppy program director, Becky Hein, also joined us to express her condolences.
They both offered to dress Beverly up in a fancy “matriculation cape” so we could photograph her in the ceremonial garb, but somehow Steve and I felt too dispirited to mess with that. We did move outside for a photo in front of the facility’s sign.
We returned inside, gave her final hugs, handed over the leash, and watched her exit toward the kennels, tail wagging vigorously. Like every other puppy we’ve ever returned to CCI, she did not once look back. (And we learned that yet another of her classmates, Helena, also went into heat at the last moment and might also be Beverly’s roommate.)
We drove home and began the disconcerting process of adjusting to life with one less dog. Our home dog, Tucker, will be 13 years old next month, and he sleeps so much it’s easy to forget his presence. As virtuous a puppy as Beverly was, Steve and I both developed an unconscious radar for tracking her presence; we do this automatically now, with all our CCI puppies. So it feels weird not to hear her following us through the house; not to see her curled up in the dog bed next to my desk.
Late yesterday afternoon, I got an email from Becky with some terrible news. Her message announced that Cath Phillips, the longtime North County CCI teacher and ultra-veteran puppy-raiser, has been diagnosed with an inoperable cancer. Apparently, she has very little time left. I don’t know Cath well, but I understand what a key role she has played in this community, and I was moved that earlier that morning Becky and Jules treated Steve and me with such compassionate attention while dealing with this very sad turn of events.
In contrast, Beverly is healthy and (I’m sure) happy. She was bred by CCI for a purpose: to work at helping people. We’ll find out over the course of the next six months whether she can fulfill that destiny. Unlike some premature departures, her journey is nothing to feel sad about.
Steve and I woke up in a hotel in Menlo Park Sunday morning to a dreadful noise — the sound of someone licking something. Beverly has never much of a been a licker, but I immediately guessed the sound came from her, cleaning up the start of a discharge from her private parts. She’d looked a big swollen to me the day before, and when we turned on the lights and inspected her, the swelling was more pronounced. A quick swipe with a tissue detected a smear of pale pink. It was subtle but clear to us: her heat at long last had begun.
Even though we’d been braced for it, we reeled at the news. As I wrote about in my last post, she’d been due to begin Advanced Training on Friday, November 3. The start of her heat would force us to take her up to the kennels in Oceanside, which in turn would rob us of our final 10 days with her. Those days are special.
Glumly, we packed up for the long drive back to San Diego, reminding ourselves to be thankful the heat hadn’t started four days earlier. At least we’d been able to enjoy this last lovely road trip together.
The motivation for it was Steve’s reunion with his Bay Area high school class 50 years after their graduation. Thursday Steve, Beverly, and I had driven part of the way, to Paso Robles, where we toured an olive ranch…
…tasted wine, visited friends, and spent the night. The next day we drove north through Carmel, where we kept Beverly on leash even though other dogs were romping free.
At the reunion parties Friday and Saturday nights, Beverly won countless hearts and prompted all manner of folks to talk to Steve and me about their dogs. Beverly enjoyed the petting and was good about posing in photos.
Steve and I also drove into San Francisco Saturday and walked with Beverly for an hour or two.
We also learned together that San Francisco is a city of 1000 street grates. Street grates are one of the things that make Beverly nervous. So we seized upon the excellent training opportunity. Lured with many treats, Beverly notably improved.
Throughout the trip, she was an ideal companion, never intruding, always relieving herself on command, never whining about the long hours in her kennel on the road.
She was joyful to be released from it at the end of the day on Sunday, rushing back into the place that she has come to know as home.
But it’s her home no more. I made the call to CCI Monday, and the rest of Beverly’s adventure with us played out the next day. I’ll briefly report on that tomorrow.
I was complaining recently in this blog about all the paperwork that accompanies our last weeks with each CCI puppy. I got all my forms for Beverly in the mail last week but still needed to do one final task: take Beverly one last time to our veterinarian.
CCI requires this, I suppose so that it has a formal record of the state of each pup’s health as it returns to the organization. Along with giving the exam, the vet has to fill out a simple-minded form. It all seems to me like a classic exercise in bureaucratic hoop-jumping. But this morning I took Beverly in.
She didn’t mind. She always thinks Dr. Scoggin’s office smells interesting, and Dr. Scoggin is gentle and kind. The vet complimented me on the the cleanliness and healthy state of Beverly’s eardrums, described her skin on the form as “normal,” and judged her current weight (67.4 pounds!) to be a “good working weight.”
Most interesting to me was the doctor’s opinion that Beverly probably had a “silent heat” last spring when her vulva appeared to be a bit swollen, but we saw no blood. Dr. Scoggin said this is not all that uncommon; she might see it in one in 20 dogs (particularly big breeds). She said the next time Beverly goes into heat, she should bleed normally.
Now Steve and I are crossing our fingers that Beverly can put this off for just 30 more days. Otherwise she’ll have to go into the CCI kennels early and will almost certainly miss the big ceremonies on November 3. That would be very sad.