Doodle Doings

Here is the conclusion of the article I wrote that was originally published in 1988 Summer/Fall issue of Tradeswomen Journal. Please see the entry just previous to this one for the first installment.

The students were one of the roughest groups of men I had ever seen. Ten of the twelve were from inner city agencies. All of them were big, all were black, all were very street tough. Most had missing teeth. One had “The Kid” tattooed in blue across his knuckles.

The two white men were good ole boys. One was wearing a baseball cap reading “A man deserves one good dog and one good woman in his lifetime.” I wasn’t sure what I had been expecting, but I knew this wasn’t it.

The first lecture was given by Jack, a mellow hippie with an easy smile and quick wit. He was an excellent teacher and I was cruising right along taking notes on heat and moisture movement, until the slide show began. Jack was enumerating the sources of moisture production in a home, and I looked up to see a slide of a woman standing in a shower wearing a towel that barely covered her from nipples to crotch. Memories of medical school dermatology lectures where Playboy slides illustrated “normal″ skin momentarily obscured the present classroom. As I recalled the ensuing battles with the medical school instructors, the dean and my own classmates, tears filled my eyes. It was starting again. When I returned to the present, I realized my decision had been made. If I had taken on the entire medical school administration and a student body of 400, certainly I could talk to one man about his slide show.

As the students filed out of the class room, I began to have second thoughts. After all, I had only worked at the school three weeks, and was still in the probationary period. My mouth was dry as Jack turned around from the blackboard. As he saw me alone at the back of the room, the look on his face told me he knew why I had remained. Before I could say anything he apologized. “I’m really sorry about that slide It’s just that it helps to develop a rapport with the students. I know I should take it out. Besides, there are hardly ever women in our classes.” As I handed him the standard line about sexism being sexism whether it was in front of me or behind my back, I remembered something Lynn had told me. Jack was often the subject of rumors among the students. They sometimes thought him to be gay because of his easygoing manner and somewhat theatrical lecture style. Jack was using slides of near-naked women. to be “one of the boys.” He was having his own problems fitting into the world of blue-collar men, and sex seemed to be the lowest common denominator. Jack agreed to throw the slide away as I realized, for the first time, how really tough it would be to establish my own credibility among these students.

Over the next several months I studied hard, asked a lot of questions, butched-up even more than usual (a feat thought by some to be impossible) and began pulling a share of the teaching load. And credibility was hard to come by. A very small, very white woman was not these guys’ idea of an authority figure on house construction and roofing repair. Usually the students’ attitudes were condescending but not particularly threatening. “Now little lady don’t you think this would be a better way to do that?” On some days they all but patted me on the head.

But one morning was different. I was lecturing about the minimal effectiveness of storm windows, and why they are the last priority to be funded on every one of the houses we weatherize A man in the front row, who had been slouched in his seat behind crossed arms and mirrored shades all morning, said, “Nah, we put’m on all the time.” I pointed out that in order for an agency to continue being funded, they have to follow the priority system determined by the State. Before I knew what happened he was on his feet, shouting, “You don’t know what the hell you’ re talking about!” I understood now why they had asked the question in the interview about how I would handle a student calling me an asshole. This confrontation was rapidly progressing to that point. Though my knees were weak I replied, “We don’t have many rules here, but one of them is that you stay in that seat. And if you won’t do that I’ll have to ask you to leave. I’d rather continue the class and we can discuss this during a break.” He turned and left the classroom, much to my relief.

After the class was over I informed Jack (who had recently become the director of the school) what had happened. He said as long as the student behaved himself for the rest of the course we would let the incident slide I was satisfied with this, although I wasn’t sure how I would handle it if the student chose to escalate things further: The students were out in the garage working on a lab supervised by another instructor so I went back to my classroom to collect my notes. As I walked past the front table I had a sudden hunch. I picked up the irate student’s Coke can and smelled it. It contained beer. And this man was outside using power tools. I went back upstairs to Jack, showing him the pop can. Within an hour the student was on his way home, and I had earned the reputation as a C.B.— a cold bitch.

That was the first, although not the last, of students that tried to intimidate me. Months later I was outside supervising a lab session. I heard one student say to his team partner, “We better get a five (out of five) on this thing. I bet she never gives fives. She grades tough. Moments later he said to me, “We’re done And we better get a five or I’m going out to my truck and getting my shotgun.” This was coming from a man fully a foot and a half taller than me, no front teeth, and a nasty scar across his cheek. With as much of a smile as I could muster I returned, “You’1l get a zero for trying to intimidate an instructor.”

“Oh no, don’t give us a zero, I was only kidding.” Yeah, right.

Almost as difficult to handle were the students that were way too friendly On more than one occasion I wanted to just tell a student that was coming on to me to just fuck off, but as an instructor I had to maintain a certain degree of professionalism.

On this particular occasion I was outside shingling a couple of large doghouses on which the students practice cutting holes for roof vents. (This was typical procedure: we build, the students tear it up, we rebuild, the next class tears it up, etc). Another team of instructors was conducting a lab, so their students were milling around outside . A very young, very good-looking, very smooth-talking young man approached me.

“Hey baby….how ’bout coming to a pool party at the hotel later. I’d like to see you in a swim suit.”

“No thanks, I’m not interested.”

“Come on, baby It’ll be a good time.”

“I’m an instructor here and I never socialize with the students.” (The cold bitch rises again. I thought that would get him.)

“Yeah, but you’re not my instructor. Maybe you could instruct me after hours.”

I was mad now. “Lay off buddy. I’m not your instructor for this course, but I’ll have your grade in my hands for the next one. Buzz off.”

Really livid, I stomped off, leaving his jaw in the gravel. I raged up the three flights of stairs to the common office that all the six instructors shared. As I slammed the door to the office and kicked the nearest trash can I realized I was not alone in the office. The newest, and straightest instructor, Lou, was at his desk. In one long rush of words I outlined the scene which had just transpired, including quite a few more expletives than is usually my custom. He listened quietly until I finished, then suggested, “Maybe you should just stay out of his way.”

That was the last straw. I exploded. “Stay out of his way! Stay out of his way! I’m the instructor here! He better stay out of my way! Don’t try to take away what little power I have here! It’s not up to me to avoid him, it’s up to him to treat me with respect!” Poor Lou was shocked into silence.

The student didn’t say another word to me. Later in the day I told Lynn the whole story. Lynn, who is black, asked, “Was the student black?” Not sure of the connection, I replied that he was. Lynn, hooting with laughter, informed, me, “They like them small and they like them white!”

Our course load was often so heavy that a class of students would cut holes in the doghouse roof one week, and a new batch of students would arrive the very next week, there to do the same thing. I spent many Sundays at work, re-shingling those damn doghouses. One Sunday I was at the usual place, work belt on, hammering away enjoying working out in the sun after many days of dismal weather. I looked up to see Lynn pull in across the parking lot, undoubtedly picking up more paperwork to tackle at home. Sure enough, she came back out of the building with an armload of papers. As her baby blue pickup truck peeled past me she hung out the window hollering, “Hey baby…. want to go for a ride? Wheeee!” I waved my hammer at her and smiled as she peeled out, enjoying the ridiculous parody. The next day at work she told me, “I saw you out there in your tank top with your tool belt and hammer, enjoying working in the sun, and I knew the scene wouldn’t be complete without some sexist asshole trying to pick you up.’ I was glad for another woman to share the burden of breaking that blue collar ground. And I knew she was glad too.

I frequently have people, both puppy buyers and other breeders, ask what I did before starting Westwood Labradoodles.  The answer to that would take many blog posts, as my experiences have been many and varied!  But I decided it might be an interesting exercise to answer that question a bit at a time.

One interesting job I had was detailed in an article in the 1988 Summer/Fall issue of ‘TradesWoman’ journal.  That was long before we saved documents electronically, and until recently I only had it in its original, yellowed magazine form.  But my cousin Brian figured out how to use a optical recognition software program to turn it into a printed document without me having to type the whole thing in.  What a clever man!  Thanks Brian.  So here it is, officially readable.  I will post the whole article in several installments, so stayed tuned!

That’s how the ad read. Teaching or construction experience? What kind of a combination is that? I’m one for two, I say aloud. But construction experience? I helped my father panel our basement, but that hardly counts. My mind wanders as I try to take stock of my position. It’s been almost a year since I quit medical school after two and a half years of good grades, enraged battles, and frustration with the system. Fifteen thousand dollars in debt, living on a credit card, unable to even get potential employers to answer a cover letter (who would believe that someone would leave medical school voluntarily and permanently?), I am at rock bottom. I decide to answer the ad.

Elation is not too strong a word to describe my feelings when that ad resulted in an interview. At first glance everything at the weatherization school appeared very white collar. I was interviewed in an ordinary elementary school classroom by a man wearing an expensive suit and tie. Within ten minutes of the interview’s beginning he told me I would be one of six called back to do a presentation on any topic of my choosing. As he led me on a tour of the building showing me lab areas where students learn to hang doors, weatherstrip windows, and insulate walls, my thoughts were almost too scattered for me to pick up what he was saying about the facility and its students.

“We’re really looking for is a good teacher. If they can teach we can teach them the subjects they need to know.”

“He wants me to teach weather stripping? I’m a science teacher.”

“The students come from all over the state for three to five days at a time. You would be teaching in a team with another instructor.”

“Wow! He really means it.  He’s really interested in me.”

My free flow thoughts stopped dead in their proverbial tracks as we crossed a threshold and I came face to face with a woman, taller than me (most are), built like a weightlifter.

“And this is one of our other instructors, Lynn.” With an unbelievably wide grin she extended her hand, and, looking me in the eye said, “Hey boss, let’s hire her.”

I wanted the job so badly I dreamed about it every night. The days leading to my presentation dragged unbearably, with nothing to do but go over and over my ten-minute presentation on the anatomy and specialization in the brain. He had said to pick a topic I was comfortable with. My practices alternated with frantic affirmations, “Good luck to me and all that I do, and good luck to me in this job too!!”

As I rolled into my well-rehearsed presentation for real, part of me was observing my observers. “So all the instructors will be in on the choice of a new team member. . …..how egalitarian. Six men, all bearded hippies, and a woman Are they looking for someone new to serve the coffee?”

The presentation was followed by a round-robin question and answer, “One of your students is falling behind because he can’t read. What do you do?” “A student calls you an asshole in front of the class, what do you do?”  “If we hired you would you be willing to grow a beard?”  Without hesitation I reply, “If you supply the hormones, I’ll supply the beard.”

They must have been looking for a smart ass because there I was, my first day on the job. They led me to a  bookshelf six feet tall, four feet wide and full of tomes on construction methods,  heat loss theory and weatherization procedures.  “Read these,”  I was told, “and when you’re tired come out to the garage and well find something else for you to do.”

“This is alright,” I said to myself. ‘being a student is something I’m good at.”   I plunged into chapters on grading of lumber and nailing patterns.

Hours later my brain was aching and I obediently went to the garage. with no idea of what to expect. It certainly was unexpected. The garage was large enough to accommodate four school buses, and inside it they were building a life-size house. The foundation wall surrounding the crawlspace was done, and l was assigned to nail the cross bridging between the floor joists over the crawlspace. As I by flat on my back, in complete darkness except for the trouble light that was blinding my  left eye, swinging (very inexpertly) a hammer four inches from my face, I wondered what the hell I had gotten myself into.

I struggled to improve my manual skills over the next three weeks, knowing that when the students arrived at the beginning of the next quarter they would be scrutinizing the quality of the props on which they practiced.  What I wasn’t prepared for was the enthusiasm with which they would scrutinize me.

But I looked forward to the arrival of the new quarter and the students. The three preceding weeks had been physically demanding and I had arrived at home each evening exhausted. My biceps, as well as a number of other muscles were unaccustomed to the rigors of rough carpentry.  On more than one occasion I had provided comic relief for my co-workers. They really enjoyed the sight of me wrestling with bales of shingles weighing 80 pounds.  Even better were the four by eight sheets of plywood or drywall which, when hoisted to my shoulders became instant sails, threatening to whisk my 105 pound body from the roof.  But I expected to be more comfortable in the classroom, observing the classes as preparation for teaching them.  I was wrong.

It is lovely to see the heartfelt good wishes for Teddy on my blog, and on the sites I posted my blog link.  I also got emails privately requesting that I post updates on Teddy when they become available.

While I was still in New York, there were a couple of Teddy events that, unfortunately, portended a later one.  My friends had some visitors besides me that weekend, including a couple kids, ages about 3 and 6. I was not there to see it, but Teddy apparently lunged at them when they arrived.  Since I was not there, and didn’t know his level of socialization with kids, I couldn’t tell from the accounts whether he was making an attempt at play, or if it was something much more serious.  The decision was made to crate him upstairs when the kids were in the apartment.  At least twice when the kids were near his crate he became aggressive, throwing himself against the sides and snarling.  This was not exactly surprising, as some dogs feel very trapped and vulnerable when crated, and react in ways that they never would if they were free.

As mentioned in my previous post, it was discovered via the microchip registration that Teddy was either from Ohio, or one of his owners was, because his chip was registered in Ohio.  He had not been reported missing.  The rescue organization contacted the person to whom the chip was registered, and that person had two weeks from the date of contact to get back to the rescue and claim Teddy.

Not knowing if the original owners would respond, my friends continued to try to find a new home for Teddy.  A friend of theirs expressed interest and a ‘play date’ was set for Teddy to meet the man and his dog at a dog park.  Teddy had a blast, getting along with all the dogs in the park……except the one belonging to the potential new owner! Darn.  No dice.

A couple days later my friends took both dogs for a walks separately.  One is a marathon runner, and their girl dog is her running partner, so off they went, while Teddy and my other friend took a more leisurely stroll towards the Eastern Parkway.

Without warning, Teddy turned on my friend, chewing through the leash and attacking her with repeated bites.  While aggressive enough to tear her clothes and bruise her, the bites were not ‘kill’ bites.  If Teddy had intended to break the skin he certainly would have done so. But it was enough to cause panic on the street.  Bystanders called animal control and the police.  Returning from her run, my friend discovered panicked messages on her phone, so she grabbed a leash and ran the two blocks to the Eastern Parkway.  Teddy was still jumping and biting, but she managed to leash him and get him back home.  When she crated him he became aggressive in the crate as well, snarling and lunging.

They called every non-kill shelter in the city.  There was no where for him to go.  They agonized.  They did not want to call animal control, but they were no longer comfortable caring for him.

Through the pit bull rescue they learned of a man who had previously worked in the city shelter system.  Frustrated by a system that killed dogs he felt simply needed rehabilitation from a rough start, he left it and started a kennel that takes in dogs that need a firm hand in overcoming their violent past.  He agreed to take on Teddy. By the time he arrived at my friends’ apartment with three huge African Mastiffs, Teddy was back to his sweet, lovable self.  Teddy left with the man and his pack.

I cry every time I think about this, every time I sit down to write about it.  I cry for my friends, bruised both physically and emotionally by their attempt to do a good deed. They always knew they would have to re-home him, but they had hoped for a sweeter goodbye. I cry for Teddy; what triggered that poor dog to break down?  Did they walk by someone on the street that had been one of his abusers? Teddy, for whom no call has come from anyone claiming to be his family.

In a way though, I have to say I am glad this happened when he was with my friends, because at this point he is with someone who accepts him for who he is now, someone who can help him overcome his past. If he had gone to a family who expected they would be getting a psychologically healthy pet, it could have been a disaster. He could have killed a child. I think the best possible chance for Teddy is the person he is with, and the only way that could have happened is if Teddy had a breakdown so they knew that setting was necessary for him.

All who work in the rescue system deserve way more recognition for their efforts than they get.  Most of them do not wish for recognition, though.  They would ask that you help the dogs.  If you find that Teddy’s story moves you, please donate to your local shelter.

The man, Dexter, who has taken in Teddy is an angel.  You can support his work by contacting him and donating through his website:

http://kaylaskennels.com/default.aspx

I had a recent experience that, while not directly connected to Doodles, is something I feel I must write about.

I was visiting friends in New York City, and had an opportunity to get to know their dogs.  Their female Pit Bull rescue, whom they’ve had for years, is a sweetheart:

A month before, they temporarily added a second Pit Bull who approached them at the park and insisted on coming home with them.  He was suffering from a number of bites that indicated he had been used as a bait dog by someone training dogs for fighting, and was so weak he could hardly make it up the stairs at their apartment.  For those unfamiliar with dog fighting, and my hope is that is most people, a bait dog is used as a victim.  Practice fights are conducted between a ‘bait dog’ and their fighting dog, but they put protective jackets on the dogs they intend to use later for fighting.  They allow the dog they are training to attack and maim the unprotected bait dog; the bait dogs are considered essentially disposable.

By the time I met him, ‘Teddy’ was nearly healed physically.  What a wonderful, gentle, lovely dog.  He had that adorable, loose-limbed, gawky gait that marked him as an adolescent despite his 65 lbs. He loved nothing better than to climb in a lap to have his ears and muzzle rubbed, and I spent much of my time while at the apartment doing just that.

He is a spectacularly beautiful animal.  I prefer the look of Doodles, but I admire any well-built animal and he certainly is that.  He is a brindle, with lovely tuxedo markings on his chest and neck and even white socks on all 4 legs.  His proportions and build are superior.  As I was admiring him one morning it occurred to me that his breeding was no accident.  Bait dogs are bred to be disposable.  They throw together two dogs in order to get puppies that they expect to toss away when they become too damaged to be useful.  But someone carefully planned for Teddy.  The coloration, the markings, the build……there is no way these came together randomly.  I mentioned this to my friend when she came down for breakfast, and there was a stunned silence.  After a moment she told me that during the visit to the vet for the treatment of his wounds they  discovered Teddy was microchipped.  My friends had been waiting until he was healed to follow up on the microchip registration, but were hugely ambivalent about doing so.  They really did not have the time or energy for another dog, so it was not that they wanted to keep him.  But they also did not want to return him to the situation from which he had escaped.  I told them I had an image of him as ‘Buck’ from ‘Call of the Wild’.  He had to have been intentionally born into life as a companion and then been stolen into the dog fighting world.  I knew this by looking at him, and the fact that he was microchipped proved it. No one microchips a bait dog.

I’ve thought of Teddy practically daily since I returned home.  Teddy, Teddy.  What is your story?  Well, this week we learned from the Pit Bull rescue organization that his microchip is registered to someone here in Ohio.  It remains to be seen whether the owner of the registration responds to the rescue organization’s contact.  Teddy has a story and at some point we may know more of it.  But my sense is that most of it will remain locked inside that big blocky sweet head.

More often than you would imagine if you are a breeder!

Last week Marley, who is hopefully due with puppies on 2/16/10, threw up some bile when her stomach was empty in the morning, so I am hoping it was morning sickness!  I’ve started giving her a small meal in the morning in addition to her usual meal at night, and that seems to be working as she has not thrown up since I started the morning meal. Of course, the other dogs do not understand why Marley is suddenly getting special treatment.  The look they gave me when I fed her in the morning was partly confused, partly affronted.  So I started tossing them each a half dozen bits of kibble and they seemed fine with that.  Luckily my dogs can’t count, as Marley is getting way more than 6 pieces of kibble!

There are other occasions when puking has been a happy thing.  A long time ago I remember walking into the kitchen one evening and finding an empty coffee bag on the floor.  This was at a time when money was in especially short supply, but we had splurged and bought a bag of chocolate flavored coffee beans.  Not a bean was in evidence, however.

I had two dogs at the time, a 16 year old Lab named ‘Ben’, and a 12 year old Lab named ‘Shady’.  Shady NEVER took things off the counter, and Ben had a history of that kind of thing, so I knew Ben was the culprit.  I freaked out.  That much caffeine would cause cardiac arrest in an elephant; I was sure my aged dog, who had cancer and was a shadow of his former self (his normal weight was 65 lbs and he weighed about 45 at this point) was doomed.  I called poison control at Children’s Hospital and asked what to do, and was told to give him hydrogen peroxide to induce vomiting.  I had no hydrogen peroxide.  I ran 3 blocks to the corner carryout and grabbed a bottle of hydrogen peroxide off the shelf, dashed to the cash register, and found a line of 6 people waiting to check out.  I pocketed the bottle without paying and ran home.  Per the instructions from poison control, I gave Ben 2 tablespoons  of the H2O2, which caused lots of foaming, but no vomiting.  Another 2 tablespoons, more foaming, no vomiting.  Panicked,  I opened his mouth and just started pouring from the bottle.  Sure enough, up came the coffee beans.  They looked the same as when they were in the bag, he apparently had not chewed at all but had gulped them whole. It briefly occurred to me that I could rinse them off…….but no…..bad idea…..into the trash they went. It was actually a lucky thing that it was beans and not ground coffee he had consumed, as ground coffee would have allowed much more caffeine to be absorbed into his bloodstream and he likely would have died before I made it back from the carry-out.  I have never been without hydogen peroxide in my cupboard since that day. And I did go back to the carry-out a week later and paid for the bottle I had shoplifted.  The clerk looked at me like I was nuts.

I’ve used it more than once on my dogs since then!  Another time I was unloading groceries from the car on to the kitchen counter when a neighbor came to the door.  I talked with her for a few minutes, and when I went back into the kitchen there was a bag on the floor, and a naked set of grape stems.  Completely stripped, not a grape left.  Grapes can be very toxic to dogs; in some dogs, even a few grapes has been known to cause kidney failure.  There were three dogs in the kitchen, all looking at me with innocent expressions.  I went from one to the other, sniffing their mouths to see if anyone had ‘grape breath’.  No good.  Grapes don’t leave much odor on the breath!  So I again grabbed the bottle of hydrogen peroxide, and a few minutes later I had three puking dogs.  It turned out that only ONE of the dogs had eaten the grapes, and I felt really bad for making the other dogs puke when they really had done nothing to deserve it. Ah well.  Such is the life of a dog.

Facebook had an interesting application that would randomly choose posts, or ‘status updates’ from throughout the year and compile them into a collage of words.  I thought it was an interesting composite of my year, so here it is!

2009…….The Year in Facebook….and what other kind of year is there?

Helene Roussi :

is cracking up that three dogs racing around the yard sound like a herd of elephants as they break through the ice crust~~is taking a gingerbread out of the oven, lemon sauce is on the stove~~is completely po’d that a CA court ruled private schools can kick kids out for being gay~~is done sledding with the kids and now understands why you don’t see adults snowboarding. Staying up for very long at all means you are going VERY fast when you fall~~is wondering how to convince one goofy dog named Reese that the boys room~~WON a game of Lexulous by 28 points and is hungry for more! ~~says kids are good for a laugh. Shane,reading the paper:”The Cavs beat the Heat.” Gus(serious):”They’re named the Calves?Why not just name them the Cows?”~~ is keeping a tally….1AM, 4 puppies, 2 espressos, 1 load of laundry~~so far is not sure whether to be amazed or scared that in his first Scrabble game her 9 year olds very first word (bipedal) scored 78 pts. OMG what have I done?~~figures an hour of sleep should be enough for anyone~~is fried~~Survived the second prelim black belt test. Golly do I have work to do before June 20~~Is it just me or does anyone else get teary-eyed reading that Hubble has been released for the last time? How embarrassingly geeky~~The black belt test is over. Congratulations to my teammates……you guys are awesome!~~Does anyone else get demoralized when their Word IQ on Scramble DROPS?????~~SI is here, the best week of the year ~~Anyone have any suggestions on places to stay near Burlington VT?~~ Was anyone else seriously bummed to hear the Cat Stevens song, “If you Wanna Sing Out Sing Out” on a commercial? Sacrilege~~ The world is different than when I was a kid~~

Facebook also had a photo collage application.  I love my dogs, and my work with them, but much of the time it seems as though that is all there is in my life.  My life would be pretty unbalanced if that were true, so I was happy to see that my life in 2009, at least in Facebook words and pictures,  DID consist of something besides the dogs!

Apologies to J. Geils, but that song is the theme of the week here at Westwood.

“You love her.

She loves him.

But he loves somebody else, you just can’t win.

Love stinks”

Marley, my F3 medium Labradoodle, is in season, finally!

Marley-F3 medium Labradoodle

She was in season last December but I skipped breeding her because I already had two girls due in that time frame, and two litters on the ground at the same time is my limit.  I assumed she would cycle roughly 6 months later and I would get to breed her in the summer.  Silly me.  I should know better than to count on anything dog-related.  She went almost exactly a year in between cycles.

The plan is to breed her to my mini Double Doodle, Westwood’s Isaac Newton, AKA Reuben, for second generation North American Retrievers. This will be Reuben’s first litter.

Reuben:Mini North American Retriever (Double Doodle)

Reuben has NO idea what to do with Marley.  He knows he wants to do something, but can’t figure out what it is.  He follows her around sniffing her, but eventually gives up because he doesn’t want know what to do next.  Marley, on the other hand, is VERY interested in Reuben.  She tries to entice him with ‘play bows’….that really cute thing dogs do where they crouch down on their elbows with their butt up in the air. She sidles up next to him, bumping him with her body, trying to give him some idea what to do, but he is clueless.  She found it very frustrating that Reuben finally decided it was more fun to play with the 8 lb, 10 week old puppy I have here than her. I guess the pup is way less intimidating!  And Reese, who is normally Marley’s very best buddy, does not understand why Marley won’t play with her!  Hence:

“You love her.

She loves him.

But he loves somebody else, you just can’t win.

Love stinks”

I finally decided my only chance for Marley/Reuben puppies this time around was to collect from Reuben and inseminate Marley.  That went well, and now **I** am Reuben’s very best friend.

you answer yes to more than two of these things (translations below for those things that non-breeders will not get!):

1.  Your kids say, “The dog is wearing underwear, she must be in season!”

2.  You worry when the neighbor kids come over when the dog is wearing underwear because you may have to explain WHY the dog is wearing underwear.

3. You spend more on vet bills in a year than you do on your family’s medical bills.

4. You’re cooking vegetables and meat on the stove and the kids ask, ‘Is that for us or the dogs?’

5. Those glass bottles in the fridge with expiration dates on them all hold only 1 ml.

6.  You spend all night….regularly….. looking at a dog’s butt.

7.  There are more pictures of puppies on your computer’s hard drive than there are of your children.

8.  You worry about someone ever needing to use ‘CSI’ techniques in your house because you know there are traces of every type of body fluid in your house.

9. Vacation and family plans revolve around the dogs having sex.

10. There is a category of laundry in your home called “Dog Laundry”.

Translations:

1. My dogs wear boys tighty-whitety underwear when they are in season….their tail fits through the fly perfectly!

4. Breeding dogs eat well!

5. Vials used for vaccines are generally 1 ml.

6.  Some females give no indication at all when they are about to deliver a puppy.  So unless you are LOOKING at the…..important part……you might miss an important event!

8.  Between dogs in season (ie drops of blood no matter how careful you are) and dogs giving birth (more blood no matter how careful you are) there are definitely traces of blood in every breeder’s home!

9. It is pretty much a given that a dog will come into season if a breeder makes plans that cannot be changed (picture a wedding, or non-refundable plane reservations).

ADDENDUM:  Following this post a number of breeders made observations and comments that rang VERY true. So the following are not my original thoughts, but came from other breeders:

A. There are more dog beds then people beds in your house.

B. When reporting that you are taking your child to a medical appointment, you have been known to say,  “I  am  taking (insert child’s name) to the vet.”

C.  All your travel planes are based on where a stud dog lives.

If you have never raised a dog from puppyhood, it is sometimes hard to picture the specifics of bringing a puppy into your home.  Everyone has their own reasons for wanting a puppy, of course.  Some picture a warm fuzzy body to cuddle, others a walking or running companion, still others a friend for their kids to grow up with.  And a dog CAN be all those things and more!  But there will also be times, lots of times, where you say to yourself, ‘Oh my gosh, what have I gotten myself in to?”The above picture says it all, I think.  The dog is ‘Buddy’, the owners the most competent people you will ever meet.  They went on to train Buddy as a Search and Rescue Dog, and founded the International Doodle Owner’s Group (IDOG: http://www.idog.biz), among other things.  But Buddy was their first dog, and their body language in this candid picture right after he came home clearly says, ‘NOW what?’

Now what, indeed.

Bringing home a puppy for the first time is a little like bringing home a newborn.  You are not quite sure what to do, but you know it is a lot!  You are nervous about getting it all right, but are also completely unsure as to how to interpret any communications from the little critter.  Anything you learned from the reading you may have done to prepare yourself for the event has gone right out of your head.  At the same time, you are captivated by the soft eyes, the clumsy but adorable movements, the sweet breath, the immediate trust this tiny creature places in you.

In the coming days your life will become both more complicated, and richer, and dirtier, and more full of laughter. You will have to plan your schedule around the capacity of a very tiny bladder, and wish you had invested in more paper towels and cleaning supplies. You will be frustrated, and if you are lucky, you will be able to laugh at your frustration.  Your puppy will cause you to look at the world, and at yourself, differently, and will get you to meet new people whether you want to or not (everyone loves a puppy!)

So the best advice I can give those of you who are getting a puppy is, hang on for the ride.  And yes, it is worth it.

Puppies are going home!  This is always a bittersweet time.  I am pretty good at not getting TOO attached to puppies in the first couple months they are here.  I tell myself from the beginning that they are not my puppies; I am raising them for someone else.  I love them and care for them and get to know all their little quirks, knowing I will be letting them go soon.  And I am pretty good at that for about 2 months.  If they stay much longer than that I start to get attached despite my best efforts.  I am just getting to the crucial junction with these two litters! Who can NOT get attached to faces like this?

Daisy Double Doodle pups

So puppies are going home, and it is a good thing.  Families are excited, and that is part of what makes this all worth while.

A Doodle puppy of our own, a dream come true

This weekend I was planning puppy deliveries around our holiday travel plans.  One puppy was going to the same town where my sister lives, so the plan was celebrate Thanksgiving with my sister’s family the weekend after Thanksgiving, bringing the puppy with us.  In addition, a puppy was to be delivered to a town half way between Columbus and my sister’s house, so we were going to bring those folks their puppy as we passed through.

But before we could even head out for the holiday, I needed to take care of a minor detail. Sunny, my mini F3 Labradoodle, came into season last week, and according to my calculations she would ovulate on Thanksgiving.  Without fail, I have some kind of doggie event EVERY holiday, so this was not unexpected.  So Sunny is at our house to be bred, and her suitor, Zabba,  a mini F1B Goldendoodle, is also here, visiting from his guardian in Cincinnati.

Zabba: F1B mini Red Goldendoodle

Sunny: F3 Mini Labradoodle

Our house has been like a scene from a teen love flick, with young lovers pining for each other from afar….in this case from across a gate in the back hall.  Well, one young lover, anyway.  Zabba is WHINING and WHINING in frustration at not being able to reach Sunny.  Sunny is not so sure about this whole thing

(this is the first time I am breeding her).  In fact, over the three days they have both been here, she has not become interested in Zabba at all.  Normally when a female is close to ovulating her hormones take over and she will be interested in ANY male.  But Sunny is not receptive at all.  She is nervous, not really eating, very clingy to me, and growls and snaps vigorously, shrieking in indignation, at Zabba if he comes anywhere close to her.  I became concerned that maybe we had missed her fertile window, and took her in for a blood test.  It showed that she DID ovulate on Thanksgiving! So the prime days for breeding are Saturday and Monday. My plan is to allow them to breed on Saturday morning before we leave.  Then Zabba will come with us to my sister’s house, and Sunny’s family will pick her up and she will spend the weekend with her guardians, returning for another breeding on Monday.

I spend Friday getting the two puppies that are being delivered on Saturday ready: baths, groomed, trimmed, contracts and puppy kits ready, final meeting plans made with the new owners, it is all very hectic, but seems to be going well.  Then at 9 PM my younger son begins vomiting.  An hour later, my older son follows suit.  I spent the night on the floor in a sleeping bag in the room between the two rooms where they are camped out, alternating  between napping for a few minutes at a time and dumping their buckets.

By Saturday morning the worst of it seems to be over and my kids are sleeping.  Although we are clearly NOT going to be traveling to my sister’s house, I still need to make plans to deliver the puppies, AND to breed Zabba and Sunny.  That is not going well at all.  Sunny is still FREAKING out if Zabba even walks into the room.  Her guardians are scheduled to pick her up at 9AM, so at 8:15 AM I decide to move to Plan B; I will collect semen from Zabba and artificially inseminate Sunny.  I collect from Zabba, who is more than willing to donate, and I have just begun the insemination when the doorbell rings.  It is Sunny’s guardians, eager to have her home, and early.  In a comical scene I tell my partner to send them home…I’m BUSY! While Sunny is certainly more receptive to me than she was to  Zabba, I am pretty tired by the time we are done.  She may only be 20 lbs, but holding a 20 lb dog upside down (the head has to be lower than the hindquarters for an insemination!) for 10 minutes makes for a LONG 10 minutes.  Especially when I have been up all night with vomiting kids. Sunny is pretty tired too. She is so hormonal she hasn’t been eating well, she hasn’t been sleeping well, and her entire schedule seems topsy-survey.  As I leave the kitchen she seems to be settling in to a nap next to the stove.

Just as I am wrapping up the emails to the folks I will be meeting in a few hours, I hear Sunny whine a couple times in the kitchen.  Poor dog is just tired, I think. A few minutes later, I hear a shout in the kitchen, and a crash.  I burst into the kitchen in time to see my younger son starting to shake poop off his bare foot.  “DON’T SHAKE YOUR FOOT!  SIT ON YOUR BUTT.”  It turns out he had opened the other door to the kitchen and his first step through the door landed his foot in a pile of poop.  He slid, almost falling to the floor.  I guess his excellent balance from his martial arts training kept him upright in the end, upright enough that his instinct was to try to shake the poop off his foot. Poor Sunny had been so distracted this morning that she apparently had forgotten to take care of business while she was out.  She tried to tell me by whining and I ignored her.  Now I barely escaped having to clean poop off the ceiling and it’s barely 9AM.