It’s a dog’s life

Bringing Sophie home

Sophie, my border collie/miniature poodle cross, is nine years told today. Getting on in middle age, almost an old lady, though she doesn’t seem to know it. She has celebrated most of the day by sleeping in several of  her favorite spots, with occasional forays into the yard to check on the squirrels.

That day nine years ago, we went as a family to a kennel outside McKinney to look at miniature golden doodle puppies—Jordan, Jacob, Jamie, Melanie, Maddie, Edie and me. The doodle babies were eight weeks old—four more weeks before they would be ready to go—and they were sleepy. The breeder said she had one bordoodle left and would we like to see her.

Sophie, tiny and black, charged into the room and took over. She was lively, full of mischief and licks and tiny puppy bites. She cuddled into whoever held her. We were charmed. And we brought her home, because she was twelve weeks and ready to go. Jordan, Jacob, and I spent the night in Frisco that night, and Sophie slept in the guest room with me. I crated her, but, yeah, she ended up in the bed. She woke me once and piddled on the carpet, something that sends Jamie into frantic spasms. I sopped it up, and he was never the wiser.

I had retired by then and was home all day every day with Sophie, which is probably why I did a better job of housebreaking than I ever have with any dog—and believe me, I have had a long line of dogs in my life. But I couldn’t control the teething—those sharp little teeth would chew on anything. She instantly destroyed stuffed toys, so we stopped getting them for her. She chewed the wood edge of the bottom of my bookcase, and to this day it is covered in duct tape. She clawed at my arms for attention, and I remember once I embarrassed Jordan by going to church in short sleeves, exposing all the little bloody marks on my arms. But there came a day, suddenly, when she was civilized—or as civilized as she was ever going to get.

Sophie today

Sophie does not like to be told what to do. If I tell her to come inside, she’s likely to stare at me. If someone tries to drag her somewhere, she’s likely to growl, though she’s not serious about her threat. She chases squirrels with gay abandon, barking furiously, and she considers the yard guys her personal enemies to which she must alert me by shrill barking the entire time they are here.

But she is a companionable soul who loves affection. When she is especially excited, she runs in wide circles at top speed. She used to do that in the yard, but we have planted so much of it that she now makes a circle in my cottage—down the hall, through the bedroom and then the kitchen, out the door to the patio, and all over again. She is deliriously happy when there’s a houseful of people and will go from one to the other, looking for attention. She particularly loves my children and grandchildren. In quiet moments—of which there really are many—she will lie and watch me intently. Thunderstorms scare her, and she won’t leave my side when they come. When I talk to her in long sentences, which I do—she’s often the only one around to talk to—she wags her tail tentatively, as if to say, “I’m not certain what you’re saying, but I trust you.”

Sophie shares our backyard world with her two cousins—the Burtons’ Cavalier King Charles Spaniels. They are half Sophie’s size, if that much, and have about a quarter of her energy. She buffaloes them, but at the same time she can’t do without them. If she senses they are out, she has to be out with them. She will take her discarded treats to the deck and leave them for Cricket, because she knows Cricket sometimes snatches them. She is constantly on the alert lest June Bug, who is always starving, eat her food. Sophie is inclined to be happy knowing it’s there but not necessarily gobbling it down—until Junie comes along.

In short, she is sweet, spoiled, smart, and I am completely besotted with her. So Happy Birthday to Sophie. Sorry, but no chocolate cake. Maybe an extra treat.

Cricket and June Bug

I call them Tweedledee and Tweedledum

Dogs and children

Sophie on the first day we got her

Sophie at two, with Jacob

 

We celebrated Sophie's second birthday over the weekend. Even had a dinner party at which she was showered with gifts--a huge rawhide bone, a soft toy with no stuffing for her to pull out, bright tennis balls, and other things--but, alas, there was no place for her at the table and she was excluded from the happy hour because we grilled on the front porch and nobody wanted to hold her on a leash. Still after all the excitement of extra people around all weekend (particularly two six-year-olds) and her birthday party, she was pooped last night, so tired she didn't eat for two days though I'm pleased to report she has eaten her dinner tonight

Two is the point at which people told me she would be mature and calm down. I saw one of those charts that puts dogs into equivalent human ages (the old theory we were all taught about seven years for one has gone by the wayside). Sophie should be the equivalent of twenty-four. I've tried to explain that to her, but, sigh, not all twenty-four-year-olds are mature, and I fear she'll be a late bloomer. She has calmed down a lot but visitors, kids, etc. still excite her. And she has a definite mind of her own. As the groomer said to me the other day, "She's feisty" (She only tried to bite him twice; otherwise she gave him kisses.)

Jacob is here tonight, and since it's a school night I've been much stricter about bedtime. He doesn't like it and can find a dozen things that keep him awake, though he's pretty much decided we won't have a tornado. But the washing machine, motorcycles (?), and cars kept him awake in his room, so he migrated to my bed. Next Sophie stayed by him and then left and he wanted her to stay all the time--not sure how to explain that to my newly mature (?) dog.

You'll pardon me I hope if my string is a little short tonight. Sophie and Jacob are both bright spots in my life but they can also try my patience something fearful.