On Easter Sunday, April 4th, 2010, my beloved Bichon-Poo of nearly 18 years, died at 6 pm.

Around 5 pm, she'd had a terrible seizure that lasted for 10 minutes.  We'd witnessed a couple of shorter episodes in previous months, but she'd always seemed to recover. 

This time, we just knew, as she whimpered, that Sophie had lived a long, full life and it was time to ease her pain.

Since it was a holiday, our vet office was closed, so we took her to an emergency veterinarian in Waltham.  The staff was very kind and understanding as we raced through the doors. Sophie was wrapped in a white towel, as I'd tried to swaddle and calm her on the ride over.

They took her in back where they attached the IV port and met us in a closed lounge room with a couple of grey couches, lamps and wooden side tables with boxes of kleenex.

They offered us as much time as we needed. I made a call to someone who I knew would want to say "goodbye" to Sophie. 

Sophie's breathing was labored, punctuated with the heartbreaking whining.

The doctor peeked her head into the room to ask if we were ready. I wanted Sophie to be at ease, relaxed, at peace. 

I nodded my head. While the vet got the medications, I said a last goodbye to my little "Sophia".

"You were always nearby," I began, "Through every move to a new home or city. You listened when I needed to talk and looked in my eyes as though you knew. 

You were the best, little dog I ever had. I love you, Soph, I'll always miss you. Go in peace, sweet friend."

The thing that's incredible is how fast it happens. First, there's the sedative, which goes into the IV. Sophie laid her head down on my lap and for the first time in so long, she relaxed, really relaxed. Then, it was followed by the liquid that would euthanize her instantly. The doctor put her stethoscope up to Sophie's chest and announced somberly, "She's gone."

I almost couldn't believe it. Her soft, white fur was still warm on my lap- the small, bulk of her laying relaxed.

Here's to you, Soph, the one with the personality- the dog who sang and twirled around with joy for a little piece of chicken or a cocktail weenie dog biscuit. You, who always greeted me first and smiled with sparkling, black eyes. You, who loved me no matter what or when or where.

I will miss you always.

Car Sick by Rebecca Sher

He is a thruppy-puppy,

My little Brady boy.

I put him in the car, and then,

the motion makes him green.

I check the rearview mirror out,

it is a nasty scene...

My poor, sweet thruppy puppy

is blowing chunks of kibble

I'm wishing that he didn't have

that last, brown, chewy nibble.

I'm working on ways to make the car ride a little less "bumpy" for Brady, who has a delicate stomach.  I learned that he must have a drink of water after a long walk and a few minutes to get settled before he climbs into the car. Then, I open a back window about half-way and drive verrrry slowly.  I pray that there won't be a classic Boston driver behind, tailing me so closely that I can see their tense expression and Red Sox rearview mirror ornament.

I've learned to go DIRECTLY home after a long walk or outing.  Making an extra stop to say, a cafe, or grocery store means trouble. When I see Brady drooling onto the back seat, it's a matter of 5-7 minutes before the puppy fountain spews. 

I hope his digestive system matures soon. We're planning a road trip to New York soon and I'm praying we all get there in one piece.

Meanwhile, Brady is a star student in puppy kindergarten!  He sits, he lays down, he comes when called!  (He slices and dices and cleans kitchen floors!)

He was a bit reticent with socializing, at first. There's a German Shephard who gallops about and a Collie who ignores her owner's every command (Down, Jade! Down, Jade! Jade, Down! Down!) As he hollered the useless command for the umpteenth time, Jade was springing up and planting her front paws firmly on my thighs. I had to get up and turn my back to her (suggested by the instructor, Martha), which slowly caused Jade to lose interest in me.

Meanwhile, Brady sat between my legs before tentatively, venturing out to snap up a plush Christmas ornament toy. He brought it back over and perched in his safe spot until finally, his courage grew, and by the end of class, he was playing with the other big dogs.  There are two bichon-poodles, as well. One of them invented a game, and called out with a high-pitched bark to let the others know when to pick up a toy and run with it. 

I'm hoping Brady will become more comfortable socializing with other dogs as a result of this class. Learning a cadre of new tricks would be nice, as well. 

Unfortunately, puppy kindergarten won't do a thing for the motion sickness...

All I Need To Know, I Will Learn in Puppy Kindergarten

Brady has grown by leaps and bounds. When we first picked him up in mid-January, he weighed 11 lbs. and I could easily pick him up and hold him.  I loved putting on Prince's song "Raspberry Beret". Then, I'd twirl him around and dance across the kitchen with him. I knew he enjoyed it because he'd wrap his tail 'round my back and lick my chin.

January 24 - About 1 month old

Now that Brady weighs 30 lbs., I can no longer pick him up and dance with him. In fact, the picture below was taken the last time I picked him up. Since his legs extend below my knees, I won't be surprised if he's picking me up in about 4 months!

March 12- About 4 months old

Though our dancing days may be over, he's a wonderful companion.  I love taking him in the studio, even if his attention span is short. After he plays with the kong and Aloysius, he looks like he's ready for something more interesting. Guess watching me work on the laptop just doesn't do it for him.  Luckily, he has some schoolin' to look forward to....

Next week, he starts puppy kindergarten along with a German-Shepherd, 2 Bichon-Poos and a Collie. The instructor, Martha, is a good "pack-leader" and an efficient, clear instructor. We took her classes with Chester, so I learned a great deal about giving alpha-messages to puppies a few years ago. This helped me to know how to get started with Brady immediately.  I reinforced  how to sit (Emily had started practicing this with the pups by the time they were about 6 weeks).  He's also learning how to take a tidbit of food from my hand without biting me. I hold the bit of chicken or cookie between my fingers and give the command, "Gentle Mouth" without releasing the food until he uses only his tongue and lips to get it.

The first assignment for next week is to teach him how to give me eye contact. I hold a treat up to my eyes and give the command, "Brady, LOOK."  The minute we lock eyes, he gets a cookie.  Martha advised us to keep training sessions short so that the puppy doesn't get tired out, losing interest. So far, we've practiced this one a few times a day for about 3-5 minutes each session.

This command will be key in getting him to pay close attention to my eyes as he learns more commands.

Run, Brady, Run!

Here is a photo taken of Brady on Tuesday, March 3rd, 2010. As you can see, he's smiling and the reason he's so gleeful is that he no longer has the runs!  

Sadly, dear Readers, our heroic puppy friend was suffering from a touch of "irritable bowel syndrome".  It started Saturday night 'round midnight, which is a rotten time to find oneself in a crate with a rumbling little tummy 'bout to go unhinged. 

Brady did what any self-respecting doodle would do. He yipped, or, sort of bark-yelped.  

Since he's always silent as a bleached sheepskin the whole night, it was rawther unusual to hear him make any sound a t'all, so imagine my surprise! 

 I entered the kitchen where Brady was beside himself looking as though he were ready to bust a gasket. As soon as I unlatched his crate, he went bolting, nearly airborne toward the door to go ow-ow-owooot. 

Now, normally I would go out the door first to remind Brady who the leadah 'o' da pack was, but, Readers, there was no time, due to the nature of his rush, you see.  

Out he flew onto the deck, down the stairs, to the grass, fast, fast, fast!  

 Then, poor Brady hightailed it back up the steps to the door, shivering a bit from the freezing rain that was coming down.

It was then that I sensed twas time to boil the white rice.

Like clockwork, he was up every 2 hours calling out for a "bathroom break".  By morning, I was wracking my brain trying to figure out what he'd eaten the night before. Was it the Iam's puppy biscuit I gave to him when I tucked him in? Did something drop on the floor during dinner? Was it the dried leaf he munched from the plant in our friends' home which we visited the evening before?

The next day, I bought a box of instant rice packets and a pound of lean hamburger. I boiled them and made a lovely melange which Brady gobbled up appreciatively in about 30 seconds flat. So, I made him another, and another....until it was time to take him out and examine his "product" again. Sadly, it was a shapeless mound, not at all the happy, compact log I was praying for. Oh, dear.

A friend warned it would take 2 days, so I must continue to boil the rice and burger. 

That night, Brady woke up, again at midnight and then at 2 am, same drill. At 4 am, I heard a whine and charged to the kitchen. Only this time, it was Sophie.

Alas, the old gal has osteoarthritis in her hips. Though she'd had her prescription meds after dinner (for the joints, you know), it seemed it was not enough. 

Isn't it the sandwich generation that cares for the young and the elderly at the same time? So, that would make me a sandwich- a very tired, soggy sandwich by 4:30 am when Sophie was walking in circles. I gave her a second pill lovingly wrapped in a bit of meat. 

Within a half-hour, she was asleep in her crate. I trotted off to bed, aching with fatigue.

Next day, I took Brady to the vet for his last set of shots.  Since he had the runs, Dr. Shephard said she couldn't give him his boosters. 

Despair. Now, he'd have to wait another week to go hiking in the woods and socialize with strange dogs-

She did give him a pill that would nuke any parasites that might've taken up residence in his little system. 

We trotted over to the front desk where I stood in line to pay the bill and Brady promptly mosied over to the black rubber Welcome mat and squatted. 

He laid down an impressive pile of logs that were only slightly runny while a lithe woman in tight, designer jeans stood next to me, agog.  She was buying pricey bags of cat food and announcing curtly that while my puppy was adorable, his brown "bomb" certainly wasn't. 

"He better get house trained soon," she sniffed.

But I was celebrating the fact that the rice concoction finally worked.  

All Are Punish-Shed

This morning, I was at the kitchen sink getting ready for a meeting with a friend when the bottom of my wool sock suddenly felt damp. I looked down and saw a puddle that wasn't there 5 minutes before.

When you have an elderly dog and a young puppy, it's hard to know whodunnit.

I grabbed the paper towel and the spray bottle with half water half white vinegar and went at it, muttering loudly. Brady came over to sniff it, and bolted back at the scent of the vinegar which he can't stand. He could tell I wasn't happy and he proceeded to roll in the vinegar-water sprayed rug near where I was cleaning. Then, he flew over to his dog bed and rolled around in there.

I took both Sophie and Brady outside and announced (faux) cheerfully that THIS was the place to pee! Sophie proceeded to squat, precariously balancing on her little hind legs. "Good girl!" I said as I was pelted with rain (did I mention it hasn't stopped raining since last night?)
"Here's a yummy cheese biscuit for GOOD dogs," I told her as I placed the tidbit in her mouth. Meanwhile, Brady stood next to me looking all expectant for his yummy tidbit. None was forthcoming, as I grew suspicious that he might be the culprit since he did not seem at all interested in pissing (so uncharacteristic!) on the muddy, brown grassy lawn.
When we went back inside, I found another little puddle and that was when I announced, "All are Punish-shed," (Remember? The prince's famous line from Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet?)
I put Sophie in her crate and scowled at Brady on his dog bed as I wiped and sprayed and wiped again. Sophie, of course, whined and knocked against the little door. Brady (with his little floating halo perched above his head) looked over at her and then, at me, as if to say, "That's an old lady in there whining- don't you see?"
So, I let her out, still unsure of who the guilty pissing party was.
I guess when Brady weighs about 50 or 60 lbs, it will be really clear whose puddle it belongs to because, in his case, it'll be more like a lake.

Does he look guilty to you?

A Little Family Album

Emily with Sophie (Brady's mother) as a puppy with her parents, Snow White and Bow Doodle. (Breeder: Kathryn Lee of Make Way For Doodles www.makewayfordoodles.com)


Sophie at 6 months old.


Hiawatha ("Hia"), Brady's father.



Hia and Sophie in September of 2009. Both are golden-doodles, a combination of golden retriever and poodle breeds. Brady's paternal grandmother, Star, is a purebred golden retriever. Kathryn, the breeder, has told me wonderful stories about Star, highlighting how smart and heroic a dog she is.
I like to think that some of that has passed down through the genes to Brady.

Newborn pups!

Puppies at 7 weeks, getting ready to go to their homes. Brady is the one with the kelly green ribbon, center bottom step. (photos by Emily Rubinfeld)


The pictures above were taken during a playdate at Emily's on February 18, 2010 when the pups were 13 weeks old. It took forever to get them to sit on this chair together. It was kind've like herding cats. I'd get Brady to sit and Joey would go bounding off, then, the opposite would happen. Emily had about one second to get this shot while I was making high-pitched noises to get them to look at me like I was some sort of alien. It's easier to get the candid shots like the picture on the right of Joey and Brady "sharing" a bully stick.

You may notice that Joey looks like a mini version of Sophie.

Above photo taken by Emily Rubinfeld (www.emilyrubinfeld.com)

I realize that Brady doesn't look very much like his parents. Guess you could say he's the odd duck of his litter... A very handsome odd duck, indeed.
Marissa's cartoon character rendition of Brady.

Weekend Update

Mup came in from DC for the long President's Day weekend. She noticed Brady had grown quite a bit since her last visit.

Here is Brady lounging as though Mup, was a recliner chair. He already weighs 20 lbs now that he's 3 months old, so we know it's a matter of weeks before lifting him this way becomes near impossible.

Brady had a play date with Buddy, the golden-retriever who lives down the street . His "boy", Joe, brought him along with some stories about how he and his family trained Buddy to be calm and obedient. What a fine example of accepting a treat with a "gentle-mouth". Goldens were originally bred to have soft mouths so that when they catch a bird during a hunt, they can bring it back in their mouths without crushing it.



Brady is the first dog I've ever had that actually seems to like having a bath. Maybe it's the ducks. Retrievers are bird dogs, after all.

Here he is all bundled up in a lovely, lemon colored terry towel. Doesn't he look like a kangaroo?

After his bath and a nap, it was time for a walk with Dad.
Brady is learning to walk on the leash which we practice every day. Usually, he goes for about a 15-20 minute walk around the neighborhood or a paved town path. Once he gets his 3rd set of shots, we can take him for a walk in the woods.


Brady's cousin, Winnie came to visit from New York. Winnie is an 11 year old Chesapeake Bay Retriever. She tolerated Brady, who at one point, checked to see if she had any milk to offer him. She must've reminded him of his Doodle mom.

After a busy weekend, Brady snuggles up to Mup and falls asleep. What a perfect way to end a wonderful weekend. Happiness is a warm puppy.

The One Who Came Before Brady

Guess I should come clean.

Maybe you're wondering why I'm acting as though Brady was some kind of wunder pet or the dog messiah.

You see, before Brady, there was Chester, my basic canine nightmare.

Here is a photo-illustration of him.

And this was when he was a puppy when you'd think he would've been sweet and demure.

But, no- Chester was alpha from day one. 

Look at the picture below. Doesn't he look like Robert DeNiro in Taxi Driver- you know, the part where he looks in the mirror and snares, "You Talking to Me?!!!"

"You Talking to Me?!!!"

I should've done my research. 

Chester was a Brittany Spaniel which I have come to notice are rather spare in the suburbs. You see lots of labradors and goldens, poodle combos and cockers, though. That's because those breeds are known to be adaptable to families.

Brittanys, however, are serious hunting dogs.  Medium-sized and wiry, they were bred to run like the wind and aggressively find the game.

My husband and I are not hunters. The closest we get to game is when we pick a steak in cellophane from the butcher section of the grocery store. Even if we learned to walk him like hunters (invisible gun on the left, dog on the right), he wasn't fooled by our faux Jesse James as "pack leader" demeanor.

Chester was aggressive early on.  We hired 3 different trainers, took him to puppy kindergarten classes and sent him to a 2 week "dog camp". In Vermont. 

Nothing worked.

He was kicked out of doggy day care because he attacked a Scottie during free play. Our neighbor invited him for a playdate with her chocolate lab only to call us a half-hour later.

"You need to pick up Chester," she said, "He's not playing nice with Bosco. He keeps body-slamming him..."

The Vermont trainer, John, said he had to have a "nicking device" attached to a collar. Whenever, Chester needed a "correction", we were to push the button on a remote control which sends a tiny electronic "message" to the dog which causes him to stop in his tracks. 

When we picked him up from dog camp, Chester walked on leash beside us like a show breed contender, but John said the minute we drove up to our house, the dog would see a large, neon sign that read, 

"Welcome To Suckerville."

Sure enough, within a couple days, Chester was back to his old antics- yanking our shoulders practically out of the sockets when we "walked" him, growling when it was time to go inside. Chewing an heirloom, needlepointed sampler my late mother had made.

My neighbor was standing on his driveway as I flew by holding Chester's leash for dear life.

"That dog," he sighed, "needs to be on a farm."

I called John in Vermont, who just happens to live on a sprawling farm where he breeds and trains top Brittanys.

"Too much dog for ya?," he asked.

"Alright, I'll take him, " he continued, "Chester'll make a top quality hunting dog."

So, we drove Chester back to the place where he went to camp months earlier and he seemed excited the moment we drove onto the road leading to John's farm.

When I tell people the story, they think the "farm in Vermont" is a euphemism for the shelter or worse, being put down.  

 "Oh, of course," they nod, "The FARM in.... VERMONT..."

Last I heard, he was happily hunting birds and game in the green mountains. 

Dogs are bred for jobs and some are just better suited for the job of 

Beta Family Dog in the Suburbs

Job description:

Friendly, subservient canine needed for companionship, some exercise and aid with an elderly dog. Must be able to sit, lay down and be patted or cuddled. Must be willing to follow the leader even if the leader doesn't know what she/he is doing. Blind faith is a helpful attribute; sharp hearing for home security, a plus.

Must have a sense of humor.

Compensation: Full benefits package of shelter, love, liver treats, chicken and kibble galore. Health and wellness program included.

Non-smokers and non-couch upholstery snackers preferred.

This is the pup who answered the ad, and seemed to truly fit the bill.

Oh, and the e-collar, or nicking device is sitting on a shelf in the basement where it will remain, unused....

Brady, the Therapist

I almost lost Brady. 

A week before the pups were to be placed in their homes, Kathryn, the breeder sent me a text. She told me I had to decide on whether I wanted a female since there was only 1 left and a family was waiting to hear. 

I wanted to be done with it, the back and forth of deciding whether or not to get a puppy.  I texted  that if I had to make a decision right then and there, I'd have to pass. There was my old Sophie to worry about. Her hips were weakening, she had so little tolerance these days. 

Not to mention, she's a low maintenance dog who sleeps most of the day. Her schedule is so predictable. A puppy is anything but.

"Not the right time," I texted, "Maybe, down the road."

For the moment, it felt like a relief.  I could go on with my life- plan weekend educational workshops and trips and work projects without worrying about being tied down.

I was determined not to look at the doodlecam, the videocam which was broadcasting the pups growth since the beginning(http://www.ustream.tv/channel/doodlecam). 

Then at 10 pm, the Tuesday before the pups 8 week birthday, I went to Em's facebook page and noticed she posted the "graduation" pictures of each puppy (www.facebook.com/album.phpaid=2048341&id=1388367117). That's when I saw him as I've mentioned in a previous entry. There was something in his eyes and that bit of a smile that seemed of a kind nature.

I looked over at Bruce, who held his laptop and was working quietly on the armchair across from the couch where I sat, sighing. 

"What?!, " he asked. 

"This puppy," I crooned, "He's just soooooo..."

Bruce had heard about this for 5 weeks now- and he didn't seem that thrilled with the idea of doing the puppy thing again. 

But, he sensed my longing for something, ever since our youngest went off to college.

" Just call Kathryn already," he said without looking up from his screen.

"I wish you'd called 45 minutes ago," she told me, sounding dejected,

 "I just promised him to be trained as a therapy dog. He'll be perfect for that."

(A therapy dog goes with it's owner to assisted living facilities and children's hospitals to cheer the residents and patients. I've heard about studies that found when people are in contact with a calm, furry pet, they can show signs of physical improvement.)

My heart plummeted with this news.

"I'll train him to be a therapy dog," I promised. 

At first, it seemed she could not be swayed, but, luckily, she was empathetic and sensed that Brady (nee "Kelly") was my"destiny" dog.

We scheduled the pick-up for the following Sunday morning.

The thing I've come to realize is that Brady is already a therapy dog. Without him, I know I would've been sitting in a therapist's office, groaning about how I was searching, searching, searching to fill this vast vacuum that remains after  26 years of nurturing, caring, and mothering. You don't just shed all that like an iguana skin after molting. 

Yes, I'm aware he's a dog and not a furry son. Still, I'm shaping his development as pack leader, teacher and guide for him. It is work I'm quite familiar with- it's what I know.

Then, there's the love. It's like it grows exponentially each day. 

I guess there was this part of me that wondered if it could, right now. 

I was so busy thinking about freedom, I forgot about love.

Here is a picture of Brady on his first official outing at the Wellesley Booksmith where they welcome dogs. What better place to take him than a store filled with fine literature and a treat jar with dog biscuits?

A little girl was crying as she toddled behind her father who told her it was time to go. Then, she saw Brady. The last tear rolled down her cheek as she ceased her wails, and looked at him in wide-eyed wonder.  

Hmmm, I guess he is a therapy dog!

Her father leaned down and took Brady's furry head in his palms, rubbing his neck just the way a puppy loves. Then, he put his daughter's striped, winter cap on her head, buttoned her coat, and said, 

"Time to go, honey." 

She took his hand and walked along with him, without protest.

Sophie, The Photo Studio Star

It seems only fair that you get some background on Sophie, my bichon-poodle, who, as I mentioned in previous entries, is 17.5 years old.  So, if my information is correct, you multiply a dog's age by 7 to calculate how old they would be in human years. Since Sophie's only a very smmmall animal (like Pooh's friend PPPPiglet), I'll figure in a few extra years and multiply her age by 6.  That makes her 105 years old.  I think you'll agree that she looks pretty good for her age as evidenced in a recent studio portrait taken of her below.

Once upon a time, she was quite a spry little doggie.  She seemed to enjoy posing in the studio because there were always scrumptious treats like those biscuits that look like cocktail weenies  to tempt her onto the platform. 

Below is one of my favorites- Sophie as the glamorous couple. You may notice there's a grey divider line between the characters. That's due to the double exposure on film done by covering up half the lens for the 1st shot, the 2nd half for the last shot. Nowadays, with digital, it would be much easier to make a clean looking composition. (I'll have to try it with Brady, who would also make a fine looking couple...)

This snapshots below were taken of Sophie with Shana, our golden-retriever. Shana was 7 years old when we got Sophie and she served as a mother-figure for our new pom-pom ball. Soph loved to sleep on Shana's back, or clamp down on her tail and get a wild ride as Shana wagged away. 

Sadly, Shana died when she was 12 years old due to a debilitative digestive disorder.

I still miss the way she would walk the periphery of our backyard fence every morning and then, stand at the sliding glass door, ready for all the action that school-age children bring into the house each day.

This picture was taken with a 4x5 view camera in my first studio. It was a test shot as I was learning to use the heavy box camera fixed onto the tripod. View cameras are large, unwieldy things and they take forever to set-up. Then, there's the exposure time which is long. 

My husband and children refused to be corralled into the studio, as they knew what it meant to sit for those agonizing minutes while I fiddled with the focus dials, moving the bellows hither and yon, ad nauseum. 

Sophie, however, was more than happy to strut into the studio. For the price of a cookie, she sat stock-still on a stool, patiently waiting for me to take this photo. 

In retrospect, it's amazing she could do it- The detail that results from this type of photography is uncanny. Look at the crystal clear reflection in her eye and the stray strands of hair askew on her ear. 

The bichon-poo, immortalized.

What's Up, Doc? or Has The Ball Dropped?

 It's February 4th in New England, sunny and cold with patches of snow and ice crusting the ground. It feels like it's still Groundhog Day, that gnawing period when winter begins to outwear it's welcome.

Brady is nearly 11 weeks old, it's time for his veterinarian checkup and 2nd set of shots. He got his 1st set when he and his littermates were 7 weeks old on a visit to Em's vet. At that time, I found out one of is testicles hadn't descended yet. This can be a concern when the pup is neutered as the surgeon must cut into the abdomen to remove the undescended testicle.

Dr. Shepherd puts him on the examining table and checks him from head to toe.

She notices he's a little slim and suggests I try a new puppy food, which he gobbles right up when she gives him a handful. Luckily, there's a bag included in his "puppy kit" so I can get him started on it when we get home.

Who wouldn't be charmed by that face and gregarious disposition?! Doesn't he look like one of those baby harbor seals? 

Hooray, Dr. Shepherd found the missing testicle! 

Ladies and Gentlemen, the ball has dropped-

Happy New Year, Brady!

To ensure that it is a healthy new year, Brady gets a shot right between the shoulders... 

What a trooper- he didn't even cry. 

Brady has so impressed Dr. Shepherd that she sits down on the floor to give him a little t.l.c after the distemper shot. 

She gives me some advice on housetraining: 

Puppies must be monitored at all times, so if he isn't being watched, he must go in the crate. 

(I must admit, there've been times when I left him in the kitchen unattended for a few minutes here and there while he napped in the corner with Sophie who is hardly a puppysitter).

Dr. Shepherd also suggests a new way to stop him from biting my fingers during play. She said if you "Yip" as another dog would, it will stop him short. Then, praise him with a treat when he licks after the nipping stops. 

Finally, she told me it's important to socialize him with other people and familiar dogs who've had all their shots.

Until he's gotten his final set of puppy shots at 16 weeks, he can walk with me on roadways and sidewalks that are free of pet or wild animal stools. 

I tried walking him down our street when we got home. The mail truck was the only vehicle moving on the street and Brady seemed a bit spooked by even that.

Hmmm, this street training might take a while....

Should I Stay or Should I Go?

Here is Brady's view of the hardwood stairs from the second floor of our home.

If you were a small puppy, with legs growing longer and more clumsy each day, you would find the prospect of descending these steps rather daunting.
During his first week, Brady tried to follow Bruce up a few of these steps, and he went woefully sliding down. He made a mental note never to try interior stairs again. After that little accident, Brady would cry when we took him to those or the basement stairs.
I didn't want to reinforce his fears by carrying him up and down steps until I strained muscles in my lower back.
To grow into a confidant dog (with an owner who doesn't walk hunched over), Brady needs to know that he's capable of tackling something scary even if he is a puppy.

Above is a picture of Brady at the top of the stairs, weighing out his options. (Could he make a home of the upstairs? Is there a patch of snowy grass where one could take a dump? Most importantly, where are the biscuits?!)
Once again, I took Cesar Millan's advice, and empowered my puppy instead of doing it all for him.
I sat one step below him at the top. (I apologize that I don't have a picture of that, but you see, I was the only one there with him and felt it prudent to concentrate on assisting him rather than contorting to fit us both into the frame as he went airborne cursing my name.)
I held out my arms and said, "You can do it, Brady! C'mon, boy- I'll catch you."
I said this over and over until he was ready to go...just..one...step.
Finally, he did and I kept my promise to hold him for a minute. I slid down another step and another, then two, continuing to hold my arms out until his confidence grew.
Brady followed, slowly, carefully concentrating.

Soon, I could go down enough steps to turn and take this photo of Brady going down the steps all by himself.

Here's Brady, nearly at the bottom, looking quite proud of himself.
(Either that, or he's saying, "Really? You want a picture of me here?")

So, it got me thinking about the times when I've been totally overwhelmed with the idea of doing something new and scary. There's that feeling that the steps are too big and there's way too many of them. Where do you start?
It's easier to stay where you are and stick with what you know and can easily tackle.
But, you have to move forward to grow and open up possibilities.
If all you do is envision the hard fall, how can you ever move ahead?

The idea of starting this blog was pretty daunting to me. Who will want to read it?, I wondered. How will I write consistently for the first few months of his life, let alone, the first year?

I decided to start with the first step, entry #1, "Pup or No Pup?".
This is my 11th post, and somehow, the task doesn't seem nearly as daunting anymore....