I’ll try to describe it. Scooter cried, rather frantically. We, his people, heard pup shuffling of some sort but couldn’t find the source. Not that we weren’t trying. Not that we weren’t scouring the spaces of this small apartment. It shouldn’t have been that hard. We called, we urged, “Scooter, Come!”

If you’ve read the previous sixteen “Puppy” blogs, you know that Scooter understands at least 23 words. He knows what a command is. He’s done well, this 70% fully grown boy bearing all body parts and a puppy coat. Scooter’s development and training has advanced, swimmingly. But, on the particular day I strive to describe, it was as if a spell of forgetfulness had fallen.

I don’t remember being warned that our darling Doodle would resort, revert, regress, retrograde, that is, return to the state of “never learned that command, never heard you say ‘don’t chew on that;” didn’t know that in its eighth month, on becoming an adolescent, puppies eschew, defy, test, and attempt to take over.

Yesterday, I Googled: “What-to-expect-from-a puppy-of-eight-months,” and learned that we now have a teenager.

Barely into his eighth month, our boy has chewed a corner from an ancient end-table. He has planted teeth marks in an overstuffed chair’s wooden leg, and gnawed at the legs of black kitchen stools. He has extracted squeakers and stuffing from even the feet of his third (and beloved) Lamb Chop toy, destroyed one indestructible Kong, carried from his crate the knitted blanket enjoyed for years by his predecessor, Skoshi, and unraveled it with such precision one would think he had used needles. 

And speaking needles, he chewed the tip off a size 4 bamboo circular needle I am (was) using in the making of a cotton washcloth, and before he was finished with my work, the attached yarn stretched in a series of tangles from one room to another. All of this over several days, between strong romps outside, training sessions inside, sweet snoozing at our sides, great happy exchanges of affection with family and friends, barking at dogs on a TV screen, and two servings a day of Lamb-blueberry-pumpkin kibble. But now, I will attempt to describe his masterstroke, his tour de force, his discovery of new dimensions. 

As I said at the beginning of this posting, “Scooter cried.” He does that when he holds a toy and complains that we are not playing or paying attention. But, this cry differed. This cry sounded frantic. We hunted. We called. We heard a scurrying sound. We grew more and more concerned. 

Nowhere. Scooter was nowhere. But wait. His voice was there—there in the master bedroom—but he wasn’t. That is, not in his crate, not on the bed, not on the floor, not in the closet, and he no longer fits under the dresser or end tables, he wasn’t there, but he, his voice, Was There, in the room.

Dave and I stood on either side of our bed. Scooter’s voice, Scooter’s scurrying, was between us. I flattened myself on the floor, and looked under the bed. Scooter was not under the . . . Wait!

We have a Tempur-pedic mattress, which by design, is set upon a fabric covered wooden support box, no springs, no complications, and sealed on the underside with strong, sturdy muslin material — in which Scooter was, well, scooting. 

The writer of a Google article wrote:

“The best advice we can give you at this point is to practice your breathing exercises. . . Your 8 month puppy will grow out of this phase quickly. Try to manage the destructive behaviors by exercising your pup as much as possible.”

“Scooter’s inside the box!” I exclaimed. “Stuck!” I shouted. Scooter scooted. I watched the shape of his body indenting strong muslin material. I watched as it slipped around, seeking, I hoped, a way out. 

“Scooter!” I said, stretching my arm under the bed, my fingers following his belly nearly as I could, coaxing him toward the hole he had hollowed out, trying all the while to adopt beneficial breathing.

“Stop calling him,” I said to David who was now on the floor on his side of the bed. “He needs to come this way. I found the hole he made.”

“Scooter, come, sweet boy,” I said calmly. Scooter scurried. Hither. Fro.

“At this age it may seem as though your pup’s selective hearing is growing as fast as your puppy is. Training and commands you thought were previously mastered are now in dire need of a tune up. Don’t worry, this phase will soon pass and your polite little angel will return.”

“Scooter!”

Scooter scooted about, between the box top and muslin dust cover, indenting the tarp-like material wherever he crawled, and nowhere near the small hole he had chewed for his entry into a new dimension I call “Between.” A thin place, indeed, but not quite what Celtic Christians meant by the term.

“Puppy adolescence usually stomps through the door around 7 months and starts to fade around 9 to 10 months.”

Scooter slipped to the floor like a baby at birth, shook off his adventure, and sealed it with a wag and wiggle. Eight months, two weeks, three days old. But, who’s counting?