Congratulations, It's a Dog!

On Brady's first night with us, we tucked him in at 10:30 p.m. We were exhausted after a day filled with anticipation and getting him settled into his new home.

Brady woke up promptly at 12:30 a.m. First, we heard him knock against the crate, then the low whining started. This was followed by "arrr- rooos", the 

howling to the moon sound which recalls his wolf ancestry.

Congratulations, it's a Dog!

The real kind. 

Our other dog, Sophie, is more like a cat. She's a 6 lb bichon-poodle, and although she used to "sing" when she was younger, she never really howled.

Sophie, The 17 year old Catty-Dog with Brady.

In "How To Raise The Perfect Dog" by Cesar Millan (my new bible), it describes the first night as a tough one for a new singleton puppy (and his owners) because he's used to being with littermates. While Cesar advises keeping the crate in the bedroom the first three nights, Brady's breeder, Kathryn told me it was fine to keep him in the kitchen with  Sophie even if she was sleeping outside his crate. (There would have been a "catty fight" if I put them together.) I figure setting him up in the bedroom  would make the transition tougher on night four when he was crated in the kitchen.

Cesar suggests rewarding the dog when he does quiet himself down. So, I go into the kitchen at 1 pm after he's been silent for about ten minutes and give him a bully stick (a dried penis of a bull, no kidding- turns out these are the new "it" treats for dogs...). Of course, Brady cries out when he sees me and the tirade begins again. Evidently, he didn't read that chapter in the dog whisperer book.

When I climb back into bed, Bruce asks, "What'd you do that for?" as we listen to the strains of Brady's long, low whelps in the background. 

"Cesar said to reward him for settling down," I reply matter-of-factly.

To his credit, Brady usually quiets down after about 5 minutes and then starts again 1-2 hours later. By 4:45 a.m., Bruce and I agree that this was a pretty good stretch for his first night. Though it's pitch black out and hailing, we call it morning and go into the kitchen to greet Brady.

Here's the thing about puppies: when they see you first thing in the morning, it's like you're a rock star or something. He's dancing around his crate, joyful baby howls echoing through the kitchen. "I NEVER thought I'd see you TWO again!," he seems to be shouting. 

We pull on our boots and brace for the icy morning,complete with a pelting combination of snowflakes and rain. I carry Sophie to her usual spot as close to the house as possible so she can pee within 2 minutes, gingerly lifting her leg and lowering her bottom, precariously balancing on the crusty layer of snow. When she's done, I sweep her up under my arm before she starts to shiver and quickly return her to the warm kitchen.

Bruce opens the door to the deck and steps out followed by Brady, who treads tentatively, and stands at the top of the deck stairs. After settling Sophie back onto her dog bed in the kitchen, I return to join Bruce outside.

"Brady, Come!," we say cheerfully as though the sun were shining and it was a balmy day in June instead of a frigid day in January.

He snowplows, pivoting to the right for the first step and then turning slowly to the left, crossing to the other side to get to the second step, finally bounding down the last two steps to the patio. 

Brady follows Bruce to the other side of the yard where we have designated his "toilet" to be. After he squats to pee, we give him a treat of a bit of roasted chicken or a kibble.  We cheer like soccer parents after their kid scores a goal. We hope the neighbors don't see us looking like a couple of middle-aged fools in pajamas and fleece jackets doting over their furry-child.

 "But, look how smart he is", we tell each other as though we're responsible for his genetic make-up,  "Brady knows to pee outside!"

Don't even ask what we do when he makes a crap. You'd think it was Mardi-Gras on Bourbon Street.