Boscoe joins the Pack: Part Three

Toby was thrilled to be going to the park so late. I tossed the tennis ball into the dark and he took off at top speed. When the puppy saw him, he screamed--the piercing shriek sounded just like a woman-- and scrambled behind Doug's legs. Toby ignored him and dashed past after the ball.

After two or three retrieves, he finally acknowledged the puppy, giving him a disinterested sniff. And then we all went home.

Toby gave me an alarmed look when the puppy trotted along with us. Hey! What's the deal? He's coming with us? But by then it was too late. The puppy scampered up the steps ahead of us and trotted into the house like he'd lived there forever.

We fed him, made a little nest of blankets in the kennel, set him inside, and locked him in. Then, as per the instructions on the kennel box, we left the room. We cowered in the hallway and held our breath.

Immediately a chirping medley of puppy squeaks sounded forth.

Doug and I looked at each other. That sound could break your heart. But no; we must steel our hearts. We must raise this puppy to be perfect.

The squeaks and chirps increased in volume. I poked my head into the room. "NO!" I shouted, and immediately retreated. The puppy stopped, startled. And then after a moment, the squeaks started up again.

For the next 15 minutes, we worked our way up the hierarchy of discipline. A series of sharp NOs escalated to a quick shake of a can of pennies, which escalated to a WHOMP! against the side of the cage with a newspaper. Each time, the puppy looked startled, grew quiet, and then resumed his mournful chirps.

Doug and I realized at the same moment that this was a terrible way to train a dog.

"He's scared, it's late, he doesn't know who we are or where he is, we took him away from the barn, stuck him in a cage, and now we're bashing the side of it with a newspaper," I said. "That's not going to stop him from whimpering. That's going to traumatize him!"

So much for training by the box.

By now it was very late, and we were tired. The puppy continued to make mournful chirping and snuffling noises.

I didn't know what to do. But Doug did. He pulled a blanket and pillow from the bed and lay down on the floor next to the kennel. He stuck two fingers into the cage and gently stroked the puppy's soft back. The puppy quieted down immediately.

And after not too long, side by side, they both fell asleep.


The puppy did not hold the penny incident against us. He loved us from the minute we freed him from the cage, and he loved Toby even more. He toddled around the yard after Toby, and he curled up tightly next to him when they slept. Toby, not used to having his kingdom invaded in this way, generally got up and stalked off, but the puppy just followed behind and cuddled up again.

He loved everything about life--cuddling, playing, eating, pooping, sleeping, chewing and farting. He drank water with gusto. He chased squirrels ineptly but with enthusiasm. He took great delight in everything he did, all the time. I've never met a dog that was so happy, or had fewer neuroses. "Look at me!" you could practically hear him crow. "OK, look at me now!"

The idea that you might want to do something else once in a while was unthinkable.

We named him Boscoe. Doug experimented with other names--Archie, for Archie Manning, because of the puppy's black and gold coloring. Actually, black and tan. Which led to Stout, as in Guinness Stout. But I just kept saying, nope, nope, not his name, not his name. To me, he was Boscoe from the beginning. And eventually, Doug agreed.

Boscoe was smarter than Toby, and he was almost certainly smarter than us, too. He was blessed with those border collie genes, and even at three months he had complete control over Toby. One afternoon I called and called, but Toby didn't come. So I got up to see what the trouble was. The trouble was Boscoe, trying out his powers.

Toby stood on the landing, trapped, while Boscoe--no more than 10 pounds and still covered in that impossibly soft puppy fur--stood at the foot of the stairs, keeping him immobile with his relentless and intimidating stare.

"Boscoe, let him go!" I said, and Boscoe turned off the stare. Who, me? he asked. Toby slunk past us out into the yard.

A few days later we came back from a morning walk. Before we could unleash the dogs, Boscoe grabbed Toby's leash in his mouth and started dragging him around the yard. Poor Toby, being hauled around by a tiny creature a third his size, looked absolutely baffled.

"Drop it!" I yelled, and Boscoe dropped the leash--and then put his paw on it to hold Toby in place. And I swear he grinned. Toby, trapped once again, just looked at me.

Who is this hellish creature you have brought in to destroy my life? you could hear him ask.

But little by little, Boscoe won him over.

It would be an overstatement to say that these dogs taught me to love. But I did learn a lot about love from them. And through their dogness, I became more comfortable with my own human-ness.

Dogs are never crabby. They're always thrilled to see you, even if you've only been gone for five minutes. Toby rocketed into my arms every evening when I came home from work and, sometimes, when I was coming back from getting the newspaper. When I was in the bathroom, he sat outside the door and chirped for me until I came out again. Then he rocketed into my arms again.

On the couch, Boscoe couldn't get comfortable unless he was wedged as tightly next to one of us as possible, usually with his head on a lap or a foot. After growing up in a family that took fighting to a whole new level of sophisticated communication, I had to learn to be comfortable with adoration. It wasn't a bad adjustment.

I also had to get used to the normal messiness of life. You have to clean up after dogs on walks and in the yard; you find yourself monitoring their bodily functions. (How many conversations have Doug and I had that started, "How was Boscoe's poop this evening?"); you endure their belches and their gassiness; and you get over any sensitivity to seeing them lick their privates , or puke on the bed.

Like the adoration, the funny stories, the floating dog hair and the scatter of Kong balls and puffy toys, it's all part of living with a dog. And even though I spent the first 31 years of my life afraid of dogs, I hope never to live without one again.