Quiet Mornings With the Boys

Most dog parents can appreciate that our dogs live little lives full of privately observed and loved moments that the outside world would fail to appreciate. Our dogs have quirks and mannerisms that we come to know and understand with a warm appreciation that only love brings. I would argue that this is where the magic of love is found: the day to day mundane and unspoken moments.

I have no dog tales of truly grand adventures: scaling mountain trails, adventurous hunting expeditions, being saved from drowning by my Labrador.

I have none of that.

My dogs are not the mountaineering type. They may actually try to save me if I were drowning, but they'd more than likely end up floundering themselves and adding to the already emergent situation. Well, one of my two dogs may actually try and save me. The other one is petrified of water and will not even step foot in a puddle.

No, my dogs are “cuddle on the couch, fart in their sleep, and attack the shadow monster” type of dogs. And I feel privileged to be their family and part of their trusted inner circle of humans. It is an exclusive club and difficult to gain membership.

I wake up every morning with a diapered German Shorthaired Pointer named Crash tightly nuzzled to me and an American Bulldog named Frank who is splayed out along the side of my sleeping husband. Crash is diapered because he pees in his sleep and wets the bed. God love him.

Crash enthusiastically and joyfully wakes up every morning at 7:30am, gets out of bed and comes over to my side and wakes me up. Time to potty! Frank begrudgingly follows by doing a 2 minute full body stretch half in bed and half not and comes with to potty.

Crash came to us unexpectedly and unsolicited and the timing could not have been worse. Our senior dog, Hurley, was in his last days after battling cancer and we had that final appointment scheduled at the vet in the morning. My sole focus was making sure he was as comfortable as possible and that he had everything he needed or wanted in his twilight hours. It was this day that a friend of ours called in a panic and asked if we could take his dog. He had just adopted a very young German Shorthaired Pointer from a stranger on Facebook (never a good idea) and had only had the dog two days but his wife gave him an ultimatum and he needed to rehome the dog asap. He didn’t want to bring the dog to a rescue because apparently the poor thing had already been to three homes. My husband agreed to take him in at least temporarily and I somewhat reluctantly went along with it. I sequestered Hurley, our senior, in the master bedroom so he wouldn’t be stressed by the new arrival and could rest.

The next day I said goodbye to Hurley, one of the great loves of my life, and was just devastated. I had no room in my patience or my heart for a new dog at that moment. My husband grieved Hurley as well, of course, but was also somewhat distracted by the idea of having possible a hunting dog. For free! In my deflated sadness I mumbled something to the affect of “fine,” which any woman will tell you is a four letter word to be treated with caution, but my husband took it as an enthusiastic yes.

The dog was named “Ashby.” We both agreed it was a horrible name for a dog, but knew the poor thing had kind of already gotten used to the moniker. We came up with a solution by altering the name to something that sounded like ‘Ashby’ or ‘Ash’ like he was used to. We settled on ‘Crash’ and we either chose a frighteningly fitting name or it was a self-fulfilling prophecy, but in any case the name fit.

Crash was carted off to bird dog training for a month shortly thereafter. I feel ashamed to admit I was happy to see him go. Crash was the most energetic, attention-needing dog I had ever met. He constantly required exercise, someone to play with, or your undivided attention. He weighed seventy pounds but thought he was a lapdog and would unceremoniously plot himself on your lap. In my grief I did not have the energy or love that this newcomer so desperately needed.

Time would prove otherwise, of course. He adorably grew on me like a weed. He was here to stay. Maybe it was the sleeping upside down and snoring loudly. Maybe it was the farting when he went up or down stairs. Maybe it was the need he has to be attached to you at all times. Scoot over on the couch? Crash will scoot too. Reposition yourself in your sleep? Crash will reposition to fit against you. In any case, it was really his persistence at trying to be loved and noticed that ultimately won me over completely. And knowing we were at least the third home he had tried made us resolutely promise to him that this was indeed his forever home.

Frankie had become part of our family about a year earlier. My mom had sent me a link to a dog on an adoption site. She knew we were looking to adopt and this dog had the same nose markings as my dog I had as a little girl. It’s the serendipitous things. We went to meet Frankie at the shelter and right off the bat things did not go well. It was apparent that Frankie distrusted and disliked men. Including my husband. Being the awesome dog dad that he is, however, my husband was convinced he could gain his trust and win him over.

He did. It only took a short walk and a little time for Frankie to see he was safe.

Now, as Frankie is sprawled out in the king-size bed and dreaming with a foot twitch and muffled little bark, it’s hard to remember some of those early days when we were all still getting to know one another.

So today, we go outside to potty in the brisk morning air and then back inside they get their breakfast. Frankie promptly goes back to bed as usual and Crash attentively comes and sits at my side as I start the coffee in the kitchen. His stare is intense and his message comes across telepathically and clear. Treats?

Yes, Crash. You’re my good boy. Of course you get a treat. Two actually.

And I take a few treats to give to Frankie like breakfast in bed.