It’s a dog’s life

 

Golden doodle pup, 
considerably younger than Beau in my book.

It’s a given that pets, particularly cats but almost as often dogs, sell books. Look at Lillian Jackson Braun’s “The Cat Who” series or Carole Nelson Douglas’ Midnight Louie. On the doggie side, there’s Dog Bless You in the Golden Retriever mysteries or Olivia LImoges and her black poodle, Haviland, in the Books by the Bay series. For some time I have wondered why I, a devoted dog person, never include dogs in my mysteries.

As I got a few thousand words into my newest, Irene Keeps a Secret, I suddenly decided that narrator/protagonist Henny James needed a dog. I chose a rescue golden doodle, partly because I’m partial to doodles (if you read this blog, you know my Sophie is a bordoodle—border collie and poodle) and partly because if you’re going to acquire a dog today it should be a rescue. Because a friend has a labradoodle named Beau, I gave the dog that name. And sort of wrote him into the book, giving him cameo appearances.

Then it occurred to me that ifI there is going to be a dog in Henny and Patrick’s life, it needs to be an integral part of their lives and not just something mentioned occasionally for effect. I wouldn’t do that to a living dog, and I didn’t feel comfortable doing it to a fictional dog.

So this morning I went back, writing Beau into scenes from the very first few lines. He’s seven months old, still gangly puppy, still unbridled energy, getting better about his house manners but with no idea the couch and bed aren’t his. Crate trained but not happy about it. A nuisance when Henny tries to straighten the house or even cook—though coerced into his crate he will sit and watch her in the kitchen. I’ve now given him a distinct personality.

At the end of the morning I wrote Beau’s best scene so far—with Irene and friends visiting for cocktails and appetizers, Beau breaks out of his kitchen crate, barrels through the swinging door from kitchen to living area, and streaks across the room to land in Irene’s lap, overturning her appetizer plate in her lap and spilling her rosé (thank goodness it’s not red wine). Chaos ensues, naturally. I had so much fun writing that scene and, indeed, all morning weaving the dog scenes into the text.

Such a scene is not too far from reality around my cottage. The other day a guest sat on the couch and was startled when Sophie hurtled across the room and jumped up beside her, already for some human love. The guest looked at mee questioningly, and I said it was okay with me if it was with her. There is not much stopping Sophie.

Sophie, needing a little love.

Like a lot of other pet owners, I am still having trouble adjusting to the time change. That is, Sophie isn’t adjusting, and I am not doing well with her schedule. This morning she got me up at six-forty. I let her out, cautioning her to come right back in. Of course, she did no such thing. She went up on the deck and glued herself to the back door of the main house, from where she surveyed her kingdom. My cries of “Cheese” went unheeded. Finally I gave in, as I have every morning lately, put on a sweater, put my phone in the seat of my walker (an extra precaution), and ventured out in the cold—it was in the low forties—waving my silly piece of cheese. She came slowly, reluctantly, but I soon had her captive back in the house and could go back to bed for another hour.

Tonight she could sense somehow, way ahead of the fact, that we were not eating in the cottage but were going into the main house. She danced, she pranced, she threw herself against the door. When we finally went in, she was ecstatic, running through the house. But it wasn’t long after dinner before she was antsing around, ready to go back outside. If you ask her if she wants to go home, she runs to the back door. Trouble is, she doesn’t really want to go home—with this cooler weather, she wants to be outside. As I write, she is out, and I’m wondering if I will have to use more cheese to get her inside. I just give her a tiny strip of processed American cheese—so bad for you—but at this rate, since the time change, we are almost going through a slice a day.

Dogs, God bless them. Can’t live with them, but I for one sure couldn’t live happily without one. Sophie listens in a way none of my human friends do, she follows me to the bathroom (thank goodness no friends do that), she sleeps by my bed when she’s worried about weather, and she comes early morning and late at night for a loving time, with some ear scratches and soft words. I love her to pieces.

Of dogs and cats

 

As pet owners, we seem increasingly interested in crossing breeds. I’m sure the American Kennel Association, staunch guardians of the purebred in dogs, is wringing its collective hands. But crosses between poodles and several other breeds have become common. The AKA not recognize them, but I keep waiting for a doodle association to form. The labradoodle is the original cross-bred, developed for its hypoallergenic qualities. It seems after those first few labradoodles, the cross-breeding craze took off.

When I was last in the dog market, some five years ago, I wanted a Labradoodle, but my doctor/brother pointed out that with my age (70s) and my unsure footing, I had no business getting an 80-100 lb. dog. Of course he was right, and I reluctantly gave up that dream, even though I’ve had big dogs all my life. My Sophie, now five, is a bordoodle, a cross between a border collie and a miniature poodle. I’ve never had a poodle, so I don’t know what characteristics she exhibits but I know she has traits of the border collie. She is loyal to a fault, wildly energetic—sometimes taking it out in just running circles in the backyard. Unlike border collies, she is not averse to human companionship—she is my shadow, staying by me all day, following me from room to room. But like her lineage, she is not particularly a cuddly dog—a couple of minutes, and she’s off to something else, though she will sleep at the foot of my bed. She has her favorite people and goes bananas when some of them come around. Sweet, loveable but also known to growl if you take something out of her mouth. A truly great dog.

Tonight I have come upon cross-bred cats. I’m not a cat person—I had one part Maine Coon that was the sweetest animal alive—but other than that I suffered through the cats of my children’s youth. Tonight, reading a mystery proposal about a missing Savannah, I was intrigued by the statement that Savannahs are illegal in some part of this country because, a cross between a domestic cat and an African wild serval cat, they are considered wild animals. Of course I had to look them up online. A relatively new breed, Savannahs have been recognized by the American Cat Association which has a standard for their appearance, behavior, etc. Wonder what that says about the differences between dog and cat people?

Savannahs must be spotted, sort of cheetah-like, for competition. All other colors are sold as pets. They have long, skinny bodies, with long legs betraying their wild ancestry, and long pointed ears. They are friendly, loyal, and curious—easily learning to open doors and cabinets (watch out, owners!). Some can jump eight feet from a sitting position.

Yes, they sound intriguing, almost making me wish I were a cat person. But I believe if I got a second pet, it would be another doodle dog. Then again, I’m not sure Sophie would welcome an intruder into the territory and extended family she has carved out for herself.