Mad Puppy

In an effort to stave Bamboo’s depression (on account of Laddu and Rose’s passing, or so we think; maybe he’s just turning into a cranky old guy and this despite still having his tentacles intact unlike Surprise who is deprived in this dept. ), we decided that we must get a girl puppy. Truth be told, it was sort of for The Daughter’s 16th birthday as well.

We looked and asked around for yellow Lab girl pup. Several on the phone sounded dicey and spoke in terms of micro chips, show dogs and KCI when all we wanted was a cheerful baby to kiss and muck about with. This went on for a bit to no avail. Then on a fine evening filled with old friends and music, Sharmon said he knew “someone in the office who had Lab pups”. We followed this lead that led to the fattest, darling-est, prettiest furball you ever saw and she was the offspring of the lovely Itisha’s Paris & Deuce Bigalow (yes, yes…Male Gigolo). Except she wasn’t a Lab, she was a Golden Retriever, a minor detail apparently, ‘cause by now we were besotted we so couldn’t see the woods for the trees. Lab, Schmab. A dog by any other name etc. Some brisk googling on Kuki’s part informed us that crossing a Lab with a GR wasn’t a bad idea as the latter were apparently “more intelligent”. Good, good! Bamboo’s honour will be upheld, Laddu’s noble bloodline continued and doggie-depression shall be kept at bay.

Or so innocently we thought.

I should have known, should have had one teensy inkling, on that journey home. She wriggled and wiggled and squealed so much that I worried the auto driver next us at the Cunningham Road lights would think I was Chinese torturing her, so held her up for all to behold much as Mufasa did Simba. See? Fat and Adorable Puppy, that’s all. I thought the drama was because we were strangers and she missed her Mama. How wrong I was! It’s just that she is an independent little miss. And wants her own way all the bloody time. We didn’t name her Princess Mushroom Peaches Mirabella for nothing. Mushroom for short and Mooshoo for shorter. So when we now say “What’s the Brat up to?” everyone knows the One in question is not The Daughter.

The house, peaceful and dignified a week ago, now looks like a bomb shelter on acid. The floors are strewn with puppy debris; a pink sock, 2 soft toys, Bamboo’s old bone, a guitar cable, a pine cone, Hawaii chappals and every single Pretty Thing from my too-low coffee table including a Welsh Kissing Spoon, a snuff box and copy of On the Road. And this doesn’t include the reams of newspaper everywhere to soak up sweet smelling pup-piss. Or the bits of apples and carrots that she is teething on. Oh, and the little stoneware bowl of water and flowers on the too-low coffee table? She stands on said table, drinks the water, flowers glued to her nose and then leaves wet paw prints everywhere.

And yet, we wander about all day in a love-daze, kissing her endlessly, stuffing our noses into her peachy fur and feeding her sliced bananas and curd rice (she is to be brought up a Brahmin Pup, is this one). The other day some newspaper carried an item about stroking dogs, how that’s good for one’s health. Oh, boy… That’s our medical insurance. That, and full body massage.

And Bamboo?

* One week later…He’s not depressed anymore, I don’t think. He’s just furious. He’s either dead scared of the Precious Pup or dead angry. Either way, it’s a red hot emotion. Kuki says “Just wait for six months, she comes on heat.” But it shouldn’t be just about the sex, should it? Why can’t he let his guard down and go with the flow?

* Ten days later… He’s besotted too and has lost every shred of canine dignity. She’s licking his ear as I write, having jumped all over him, bitten his tail, eaten his breakfast and made him chase her and her rag toy under our bed and through the house. The only hope of discipline lies in Kiara, who every now and again casts a baleful eye over this Creature from Elsewhere and slaps her with a well meaning hiss.