I just took on a pit mix puppy that JL wants to name "Green Bean."
"Really?" (That question comes with a tinge of sarcasm.)
What had I done? My kid is gaga over this newcomer (so am I) and now he wants to give the puppy a weird name. Even his girlfriend likes it. Perfect. No, no, no... Let's start again.
 |
| Poppy at 10 weeks |
"How do I feed her? Where can I find training resources? How does my community feel about pit bull type dogs? Is my town one of those unfriendly to pits? Can I afford the fees for shots, spaying and training?" The questions are getting very close to overwhelming what little I know about dog-rearing and what's left of my common sense.
The only experience I had with a pit bull type dog was more than 20 years ago. I was living with a man, whom I'm lucky to still call friend, in Oakland and noticed that the landlord's son was keeping a young pit or pit mix in his van that got parked in the shared driveway every night. The dog was a beauty. Black and copper brindled markings on white; Angel had a bandit mask, friendly personality, and a desperate need to be loved, exercised and paid attention to. R and I spent hours, days. and weeks trying to convince the landlord's son that a Chevy van was no home for a dog.
We finally gave up talking to the kid and began talking to his dad. We begged him to intercede on the dog's behalf. At first he acted like he didn't give a crap. Then Junior's drinking habits, surly attitude and inability to get a job decided the issue. After watching the kid's behavior for several weeks, his dad gave him an ultimatum: give the dog to us or give her up to a shelter. Maybe the Junior figured that if R and I kept Angel, he'd be able to reclaim at some point or, at least, visit her. After all, he knew where we lived.
Even now I don't know all the reasons why he made the decision to let us take her and Angel did come to live in our home. We only saw the kid a couple of times over the next two years, and only once did he ask after her.
She was a prissy dog. Taking her out to pee on a wet morning meant watching her mince through tall wet grass with an offended look on her face and unspoken objection to the wet stuff tickling her belly. She'd look over her shoulder at me with this odd expression--as if she questioned my sanity at making her go out in that intolerable environment. Yet she'd dive into little pools at Tilden Park to retrieve rocks. ?? Go figure.
Angel was my constant companion on road trips. We'd drive to San Jose to visit my great aunt or Salinas to see my sister. She was very protective of the car but not much else. Somewhere I have a great shot of her sitting in the front seat looking like the Enforcer.
Neither R nor I had a clue as to what we were doing when we took Angel. There wasn't an internet back then nor was there a shelter that could give us advice. All in all you could fairly describe us as benevolent idiots when it came to being dog owners.
When R and I parted company in 1990. I moved into a place where I could not have a pet at all. That meant R would take custody of Angel. It was a desperately unhappy parting and I wouldn't find out until years later that R just wasn't up to caring for such an active dog. One day she escaped and was killed while racing across a busy street.
That's the back story and the biggest reason I am freaking out about taking care of Poppy. I'm afraid I won't be up to the job.
