#29 PUPPY--PROGRESS REPORT

Friday, December 4, 2020

“Bump, Scooter!”

Bump, he does. Just above his nose level and transom attached by white curling ribbon, hangs a slightly deflated red balloon. Scooter’s nose bumps it, sends it sailing, he chases, leaps, bumps again, swings round the corner of the door to bump some more. When chance allows, his people bump it back. It’s a Scooter game. He’s got it down pat. Oh-oh, he’s got it in his mouth. We’ve got extra balloons.

Here’s what else he’s got down pat: Words

“Airplane!” He searches the sky. 

“Look Up” He searches up for people calling down to him from third or fifth floor balconies. He knows: goose, bird, duck, dog, rabbit (Oh boy!), person, ice, water, food, outside, brush, boat, let’s go, lift, mom, dad. He knows the names of several toys. He knows his dog friends by name: Tucker, Toby, Bravo, Charlie, Oliver, Disco, Lexie. He’s wary of Winston, respectful of great big Casey, and awed by majestically mature Kin. Words that require nothing but recognition? Got it.

As for Activities: 

Sadly, for those of us who treasure the intended shape of things, Scooter’s first move on a stuffed, squeaky toy is to eviscerate, scatter stuffing, find and destroy the squeaker. Fewer and fewer are stuffed items added to his toy box.  

This was once a well defined Reindeer.

Car rides, long walks, jumping up, crawling under, burying toys, finding toys, begging to but denied the right to sleep at night on the people’s bed, visiting the concierge, playing with dog friends, chasing anything, talking to people . . . It’s all a part of what makes Scooter’s life fulfilling. Those things, and doing squats with his people.

Scooter has created a game or two of his own. Pulling his blanket from his bed, carrying it off, and returning it for a reward is one. The benefit of cooperating with drying off wet feet is the capture of his towel, and a cross-country romp with it from room to room. 

Equally cherished with chasing a ball in the corridor, is this — if our closet door is open, he steals socks from a stack, buries them in his bed, and waits for the required human surprise.  

“Oh, look! Scooter’s got socks!”  

Then with mouth-seized socks he signals, “For a bite of carrot, the socks are yours.” Games are a goldendoodle’s duty.

Commands: 

For Scooter Sublime these are a piece of cake: Back. Sit. Down. Head down. Stay. Stop. Come. Turn. Foot. Touch. Kiss. Crawl. Under. Jump Up. Jump Down. Get it! Retrieve. Release. Look at me. Food. Leave it. Take it. Walk. Pooter. Hurry-Hurry. Bed. Treat. Quiet. Speak. Bad! Good! Off! No! We’re working on “Right Face!”

However:

Scooter is readily, instantly, regularly distracted from all words, all commands by: Geese, ducks, people, flying leaves, idle sticks, puddles, the doorbell, cars, birds flying, birds on a branch, birds at our feeder, birds in his imagination, squirrel chatter, lint on carpets, raindrops, sounds—the source of which he cannot see, scents— of stuff I can’t smell, food—the source of which matters not, dogs on TV, dogs on sidewalks, dogs  across a field, dogs in his imagination. It’s possible I’ve missed some.

And why not end with confession. We his people, haven’t yet convinced the boy to submit to his harness without his hesitation; or to be quiet when, once outside, he detects an unfamiliar dog. We haven’t yet mastered mastering the matter of “Off!” when he greets people. It is getting better. We are suckers for sharing food. Never at table, but . . . we are imperfect pup parents.

Mostly fully grown Scooter Sublime loves his morning massage, tolerates the nearly daily brushing of his heavy, two-ply coat, whines pathetically, comically, squeezed under the sofa where he hardly anymore fits but resorts to with his Small Ball when opportunity for play has been too long ignored by his people, delights in routine, and daily delights his people. 

“Scooter, read this. It’s about you.”