The Gang's All Here!

Your wish is my command, of course!

First there was chaos.


And then there was utter mayhem:

And then, thanks to Molly's help and Laurie's genius, there was perfection!

Lying: Mama Pajama, Fat Charlie

Sitting: Lindy Sexy Butt Loo

Standing: Giacomino, Maria, Sam I Am, Swede Does Any One Want Some Of ME William, Delia, Luciano

L to R: Lindy I Am Irresistible Loo, Fat Charlie, Maria, Sam I Am, Swede Dear God In Heaven Help Me William, Delia, Luciano, Giacomino

Lying: Mama Pajama

I wish I could figure out why some photos are click-and-enlargible, and some are not. Just blogger magic, I suppose.

hug your hounds

The Lady Maria

Maria will be thirteen on February 7th. Unimaginable! She is ageless.

Maria was the fourth whippet in as many years to join our family. First came Gracious who was going to be my only whippet ever. A year and a half later Caruso flew across the country to keep Gracious company. The next year Giacomino came, in Operation Rescue. Then Maria. She was the baby. A dear friend who helped out at a large show kennel fell in love with her and conspired to get her in a loving home. "There is something about her expression," she said to me. "You have to have her."

I went to the kennel. Because of the sheer number of whippets there, I was horrified. All of the dogs were happy and all of the runs were clean. But there were three litters with only a few weeks separating them in the "puppy building." My friend led me by my appalled elbow to the front of the run which housed Maria, her mother, and her litter mates. The litter was seven weeks old. The mom stood and wagged at us, waking her sleeping brood. The puppies tumbled over each other, yawning and stretching and running to meet us. Maria stayed out of the scrum, but her eyes never left mine as she play-bowed and did a little twinkling "ah-roooo."

My friend got her out of the run. At seven weeks, she already stacked (the legs parallel, head up show pose) perfectly, but she was uncomfortable being held. She was friendly and engaging, but stiff as a board when you held her in your arms. I imagined with this many puppies, the only time they got held was to do toenails and vaccinations and wormer. So I put her down and played with her. "Woo ah-roooo!" she said. Such a mouthy little one.

Show breeders like to keep their puppies to "grow them out." It's much easier to see if a five month old pup is likely to make it in the show ring than a nine week old. My friend kept nagging at the breeder to "give" the red and white bitch to Patience. Finally at a show, I was in the ring with the breeder. We were both in line waiting for our ribbons after a large class was judged. She was a Big Deal in the dog show world and I was a Newbie. I was intimidated. I said, "See, if you let me buy that red and white puppy I will get her out and show her. I'm still learning, but I'm getting better at handling."

"Oh, you want to buy her? Your friend was trying to get me to give her to you. If you want to buy her, I'll bring her to the show tomorrow and you can take her home." All righty then. I had no idea my friend had been trying to get me the puppy for free. And I was so new "In Dogs". I had dogs all of my life, but the Dog World was a novelty with unfamiliar rules and customs. I am now ashamed of having supported a breeder who churned out litter after litter after litter after litter.

But I just didn't know back then.

So the next day Maria came home. She was five months old.

I named her Maria to appease Bill. He had wanted to name his oldest daughter Maria, but his waspy first wife thought that Maria Renzulli sounded too Italian. I'm waspier by double than his first wife, but I thought Maria was a lovely name, and how could Bill mind another whippet if it bore his first choice name?

She was a darling puppy. So full of spit and spirit. And mouthy! What a talker. She never, ever challenged Queen Gracious's authority. I could not get her over her dislike of being held, and Lord knows I tried. She would tremble and hold herself at arm's length, pushing with all her little might. And when I would put her down she would shake herself off and bounce grateful "woo-woo's" at me and run and find a toy to kill. Glad to have escaped the torturous lap time alive.

And now, when she'll be thirteen in a couple of months, she has finally had a change of heart. For all of these years she has been the House Clown. If I had a nickle for every time I have exclaimed, "Oh, Maria you make me laugh," I would be able to buy a nice motor home, free and clear. And her mouth! She has even gotten mouthier in her dotage, as impossible as that seems. I borrowed a trick I saw from another whippet person. I can ask Maria, "What does a cheerleader say?" "Rah, rah, rah!" she says, bouncing her forelegs off the ground with every rah. I need ear plugs to fix their dinners. She starts when I move the bowls from the sink to the counter. "Whine, rooo, rah-rah, don't forget me! Hurry up human. Oh, the help is terrible these days. A mature whippet could starve to death by the time you get the bowls down. How hard is it to scoop the dinner in the bowl? Are you still at it? What is taking so long? Hellooooooooooo? Yahooooooooo! Here it is!" Then she daintily eats, one kibble at a time, staring daggers at any dog who finishes before her and saunters over to see if she's going to eat all of hers. "RRhhhrrrrrr," she warns, keeping one eye on the interloper and one eye on her dish, refraining to take another bite until the curious backs off. "Oh Maria you make me laugh! Eat your silly dinner."



But back to that change of heart. In Maria's contract it clearly states that she must be covered. Any time, day or night, she will woof to summon her Humble Servant to tuck her under her blanket. Now, she is perfectly capable of doing this herself, and when I come back from running errands, I will find her all tucked in. She pulls and bites the blanket, and circles and moans, and finally she is completely invisible in her shroud of warmth. But if I'm in ear shot, downstairs, upstairs, in the middle of a dinner party for twelve, in the shower, whatever, I will be mustered to her Ladyship's bedside.

Her change of heart? Lately she has stood by my chair and whined. Being a limited and dumb Servant I try several different tacks to appease her. I move her great granddaughter off of Maria's favorite chair. "Is that what you want?" No. I go and open the door. "Do you need to go out?" No. "Are you chilly?" I put her jammies on. That's nice but no. I let her lick my oatmeal bowl. "Is that what you wanted?" Yum, no. "What ever is it, Sweetheart?" Whine, whine, sad eyes, whine. "Oh, Honey, I'm sorry. I'm so slow. Humans are just so hard to re-train. Here you go."

I scoop her up and hold her in my lap. She stiffens for the lift up and for an awkward moment until I settle her just right in my arms. Then she nuzzles in, and sigh-moans in contentment. And relaxes and melts into my heart.







Oh Maria you make me laugh. After twelve and a half years you are my lapdog. What a lucky human am I.








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And now for a little excitement! There is a group of wonderful bloggers called Dogs With Blogs. The whippets are making lots of new friends there from all over the world. They met an unreservedly delightful little Wire Fox Terrier named Asta from NYC that has taken the waggle under her sweet paw. She does not talk baby-talk, being a clever and precocious litter terrier, but she does have a bit of trouble pronouncing her "r's" - probably part of that New Yowk accent.
She is so kind and sweet and her secretary helps her to have just the nicest blog, so we made her this award to show our appreciation:



The Blog With Heart Award

• For consistently using compassion, humor and intelligence to create a blog worthy of the dogs who inspire us.

Do visit Asta's blog, and you'll see what I mean!

(The whippets are a little embarrassed by my lack of graphics skills, but they think that Asta will understand.)

What is in a name?

Oh boy. Be careful what you name your dog.

My father named my first childhood dog. Rex. Not so very original, and I didn't find out until years later that the reason my dog had to have the dumb every-dog-in-the-world name of Rex, was because my father's childhood dog was named Napoleon, and he got teased. (Frankly, I think he would have gotten teased even if his dog's name was Rex or Spot or Rover, because he was the minister's oldest son, and kids love to tease the minister's kids, but it's too late now.) And I can't really complain about a dog named Rex, because I had a parakeet named Birdie, two cats named Stripey and Blacky, and a stuffed animal named Horsey. So who was I to talk. And Rex was a regal dog indeed, there you go.

My last pound rescue was Measly. She was a marvellous dog. I had asked the folks at the shelter to let me know when a "mixed hound" came in for adoption. Oh, they said, they just happened to have one at that very moment, and she was even young - probably five or six months old. I should come right over. So I bundled up my three year old son and over we went. They showed me a sickly puppy, a typical Heinz 57 - black, with brown eyebrows and leggings, with a white blaze, chest and socks. And freckles. My precocious little son eyeballed the freckles and announced, "She's meezwhee," having just been introduced to measles in a children's book. I looked at the skinny, sorry, sad little pup and thought that she certainly was, but she had a bottomless sweetness in her huge eyes. Not an ounce of trust in those eyes toward any of the adults on that day, but her immediate adoration of the little boy who was quietly stroking her head won me over. Her name stuck, and as names do, it fit her. It was the seventies and we had hideous, celery-soup-green shag carpeting in the family room. That poor puppy was sick so many times in the first months. She couldn't always make it outside (no doubt due to the Human's missing her clues), but she would sneak down to that long shag wall to wall carpet. I should have been grateful. The grossout green color matched just about anything she hurled or spewed upon it. But how I dreaded scrubbing the long fibers and then renting a huge carpet cleaning machine from the Giant again. She finally outgrew her illnesses, became an unqualified delight of a family member, seeing me through a divorce, single parenthood, nursing school in an apartment, marriage to Bill, and thank God she got to enjoy life on our farm. She died in my arms, way too young, of a degenerative spinal disease, common in her extremely distant German Sheppard ancestors.

I don't want to take up too much of your time, so I'll fast forward to puppy William. (There are many wonderful names with delightful stories, but I know you are busy, dear readers, and I'll not abuse you.) William came all the way from Sweden, with the fancy official name of Burnt Sienna Midsummer Night. I chose to call him William for two reasons. First after the slightly talented author of the Midsummer Night's Dream; "William" sounded nicer than "the bard" to me. And more importantly after my extraordinary grandson, William. William the puppy's fawn coat was nearly identical in color to William the grandson's dirty blond hair. William the puppy's sunny disposition reminded me so much of William the grandson's ready, charming smile. And William the puppy had this sense of fun that made me wish William the grandson lived much much closer. And so the puppy from Sweden was named after the grandson from Chicago, and it fits.

But. (Here is where you really do have to consider all of the ramifications in naming your dog beforehand.) My husband's name is William, though he's called Bill. And we live in the city where houses are just a matter of feet apart. And William the puppy is enjoying his adolescence. So I find myself yelling things while sitting on the porch, like "William, do NOT hump your sister!" "William don't pee on the boxwood, puh-leeeeze!" "William so help me if you eat that poop, you are dead meat and you will never kiss me again, do you hear me! Never!"

I noticed that the neighbors were looking a little strangely at Bill.

Yup, be careful what you name your dog.