The Dog Blog, Part III

For reasons I still don't understand, I started looking at dogs up for adoption in July 2008. I knew I didn’t want another Malamute – Conner’s the only one for me – so I limited myself to Lab mixes and Border Collie mixes. (What can I tell you: Miele is a great ambassador.)

I inquired about a few dogs, but we didn't go visit any until a rescue in Salem had four puppies in which we interested. We arranged to visit them with our three current dogs, Miele, Annye, and Tripper.

The puppies were all very cute, although I admit I favored two: Charley, a little-bit-of-everything mutt, and Max, a Lab/German Shepherd mix.

Charley cuddled up to Cary and stayed next to him most of the time, while Max made a beeline for my lap (just like Conner had) but also snuggled Cary, sniffed and kissed Miele, and marched with Tripper. Annye, however, was not impressed. She sat with her back to us, as far away as her leash would allow. When the puppies approached her, she jumped – literally, all four paws in the air – and backed away all skittish. It was like watching a mouse and an elephant.

We greed to give the women at this shelter an answer later that night and began debating: No, we don't need another dog; yes, things are good the way they are; yes, they were awfully cute; yes, Miele and Tripper seemed fine with them; yes, Annye would probably come around...

As we were deciding, Cary looked up Lab/German Shepherd mixes on-line and found nothing but glowing comments. How smart they are, how loving and loyal, how it's the best dog they'd ever had. He also found photos of full-grown dogs who looked a lot like Tripper. I think he was sold right there, but he put it on me by saying he'd assumed we'd adopt Max the moment he saw him jump into my lap and make himself at home.

He was right.

I called that night and said we wanted Max. We picked him up the next day at noon, and after a quick detour to buy puppy food, we introduced him to our other three in the grassy lot across from our house. Everyone seemed to tolerate him well enough – everyone that is except Rex, our neighbor's Black Lab. I think Rex had been not-so-secretly hoping that one day he would live with us, given the way he’d show up at our door whenever he managed to break free. Seeing a little whelp take his rightful place did not seem to go over well.

We held off naming the pup until we had a chance to see his personality but settled on Sherman. I like it because it’s a family name and because Mr. Peabody had his pet boy, Sherman; Cary says it fits because this little guy is a Sherman tank.

Our other three were rescued at older ages, so I hadn't had an actual puppy in 13 years and Cary had never raised one. This should be interesting, I thought. Boy was I ever right, assuming by “interesting” I’d meant Sherman would test our patience, our physical strength, and our cleaning techniques.

Like in early 2009 when our house was swept up in a new game craze, "What's Sherman Destroying Now?" It's a fast-paced, potentially high-stakes game beginning each morning when the contestant (me) awakes to the sound of muffled growls and material ripping, then bumbles, panicked and half-asleep, over three other canine lumps to find Sherm's latest casualty. Sometimes it was a hunk of chew-approved rope or an obliterated tennis ball, but sometimes...

One week he tore up more living room carpet – yes, "more" as in he’d already ripped up some – and demolished not one but two dog beds.

"Why? Why do you have to shred a $90 bed?" I wanted to scream. "Why can't you obliterate a $5 toy?"

Then I’d think, oh wait; he does that, too. Often.

Cary said Sherman – not to mention the neighbors – probably thinks his middle name is Goddamnit. Not that Cary’s discouraging that impression. I give you Exhibit A:

"I'm sure someday I'll grow to love Sherman... but no more puppies."

That announcement was uttered a few minutes after this conversation:

Me: "Is Sherman eating the carpet?"
Cary: "No."
Me: "What is he shredding, then?"
(Sound of Cary's chair rolling back, then footsteps, then)
Cary: "Sherman, goddamn it!"

Cut to Sherman with brown strings hanging from his mouth and a bald spot in the office carpet. Sigh.

Clearly we both look forward to the day Sherm grows out of this less-than-charming phase of puppyhood, which I’m sorry to report is still going strong as of early May. To make matters worse, Sherm is still growing exponentially as per Exhibit B...



And Exhibit C.


So there you have it: the long-winded story of our dog-heavy family! Some days I think we must be crazy to do this to ourselves, but most days I wouldn't part with any one of them.

Most days.