Behind Blue Eyes (and Black Spots)

Yesterday my sister-in-law told me that I was insane. It’s not the first time. It’s not even the first time this week. (I could mention that some people have 30 + goats, three dogs and five cats, but I digress.)

The point is, she’s not the only one. Since I got a third Great Dane that sentiment has become a chorus.

I did have a plan when I acquired JP, the five-month-old rescue. I thought Jasper, the 14-month-old Dane needed a playmate. He loves playing with Dalai the Dane, but at seven, Dalai no longer has the stamina to play for nearly as long as Jasper thinks is appropriate. That is, constantly.

Jasper loves his regular visits with Blue, a lovely, patient three-year-old Dane who just flops on her stomach while Jasper pesters.  Naturally I assumed he would literally leap at the prospect of having a new playful friend.

Like most crazy people, I am a little delusional.

The afternoon I picked up JP I had to literally unload him from the SUV. He didn’t know how to jump down, and when I helped him out, he slid onto the ground in 87 pounds of puppy mush. After a few seconds he popped up and started to bound around the yard in search of something interesting.

Then he spotted Poppy. JP thought she was fascinating. He gallumped up to her, brimming with dopey joy. In response, she snapped at him. He was shocked and tumbled over in surprise. (He tips over a lot – his feet are the size of soup plates.)

By then Jasper had shoved his way over.  JP was ecstatic to see another normal-sized playmate. Jasper, somehow knew JP wasn’t here for a playdate, but rather was staying.  Jasper was not pleased.

In response to JPs delight, Jasper knocked him down and growled. Again, JP was shocked.  

By the time Dalai joined the grumbling crowd, JP was confused and befuddled. Dalai just sniffed him and stomped away in a disgusted fury.

For the next day, that’s how it went. Dalai and Poppy ignored JP’s clumsy overtures, and Jasper snapped and groused loudly. Just as I was starting to think that this wasn’t going to work, Jasper and JP started playing. Hard.

They zoom around the back yard at top speed, leaping in the air and colliding as they hit the ground. Inevitably JP lands with an earthshaking thud, and before he registers what happened, he’s be on his feet chasing Jasper. 

Later when they are exhausted, they collapse on my bed, their feet tangled together a mass of spotted legs. They are inseparable.

I immediately signed JP up for puppy school. Other than housebreaking him, his previous owners had taught him nothing. Zip. He came with no boundaries. He counter surfs. He steals toys, often from Jasper’s mouth. Anything and everything in his path goes into his mouth.

It’s like living with a really huge, adorable, drooling, snoring toddler.

Since this isn’t my first Dane puppy I’m already in the habit of keeping food in cabinets, the refrigerator or inside the microwave. Needless to say, my shoes go in the closet with the door tightly closed.

For the first few weeks everything was easy. The weather was great, so the dogs blew off steam chasing each other around the horse paddock for hours. I walked each of them a mile a day.

Then it got hot. Surface of the sun, hot. For nearly three weeks in it was 90 degrees before eight am and topped out around 109. The dogs would charge out of the air-conditioned house and freeze as they hit a wall of heat.  They never stayed out for long and always returned panting, their eyes glazed with heat. 

Walks were out of the question; their paws would burn on the pavement.

We were all bored ,crabby and getting on each other’s nerves. 

Once I came home to the shredded remains of brand new package of poop bags scattered throughout the house. The ones that were ripped were draped across the furniture like streamers. At least the redecorating exhausted them.

During the heatwave, there was one day I had to be gone all afternoon and evening. I came home just long enough to feed the dogs and put them out. When I herded them inside, they were visibly vibrating with energy. But I had to leave again.

When I finally got home, I knew there was going to be trouble. But I wasn’t quite ready for absolute devastation. My mistake.

The first thing I spotted was the remains of that week’s New Yorker. I hadn’t even had a chance to read Talk of the Town . My bed was littered with scraps of book I couldn’t identify. Bits of a mouse trap were scattered in the living room. The guest room held the remains of a sponge. Tucked into the couch were my expensive sunglasses, the glass and arms gnawed beyond repair. Even my hairbrush was chomped.

Then there was the box of envelopes. It used to hold my checkbook, two books of stamps and a bunch of those return address labels charities send out. 

The box was shredded, the envelopes were missing and the check register was limp with drool.  The checks and stamps were gone. Completely eaten.  The address labels were untouched.

I surveyed the mess from the door and shouted, “Oh. My. God! Bad dogs! Bad! Bad! Dogs!” 

I stood stock still for a moment. JP blew past me into the yard in a full-on gallop. This was obviously not his first rodeo and he was getting out of Dodge and smacking range.

As I went room to room assessing the damage, Jasper followed me with an expression of complete surprise. He would have been more believable if a stamp wasn’t stuck to his forehead.

As I was picking up the wreckage, JP crept in and put his head in my lap. He was equal parts terrified and sorry.

It was far too long after fact to punish him, so I cursed and patted him. He sighed and climbed into my lap and fell asleep.

It’s not easy being a puppy. Especially one who is the size of a mini-horse at five months, and on his third home.

It’s not much easier being his person. But being nuts does help.

You're Never Alone with Three Great Danes and a Brittany

When Dalai the Great Dane joined my family, my friend Richard shook his head sadly and said, “You will never have another boyfriend.”

When Richard’s right, he’s right.

Since all was lost on that front, I recently acquired a third. 

It didn’t happen quite that way, but it might as well have. Here’s the real story: I’m insane.

My life was relatively peaceful. Dalai the seven-year-old  Great Dane, Jasper the 14 month-old Great Dane and Poppy the 11 year-old Brittany, were all happy. They played, barked and got along as well as three dogs in a small house can. Equally important,  I was happy. Naturally I had to make a change.

One day I was on the Great Dane Fanatics Facebook page, ostensibly to see puppy pictures. A woman had posted that she was looking for a rescue puppy.

Sadly, there are a lot of Great Danes available for adoption that are about a year or older. This is because people are stupid. They spend a small fortune buying a Great Dane puppy and when it’s keeps growing they realize 1) that it is a GREAT Dane, not a miniature Dane and 2) they should have trained it. As I mentioned, these owners are idiots.

Most of the dogs are fantastic, gorgeous and deserve a loving dedicated home. Due to awesome, dedicated rescue people, they usually land somewhere safe.

There are several good Dane rescues in Southern California, and one that poses as a rescue, but is actually a puppy mill. (For real. It’s run by a former child actor.) Actual adoptable Great Dane puppies are unicorns; they are legendary, but only exist in people’s dreams.

I was reading the responses to this lady’s question, when the person that runs the best rescue in SoCal posted a picture of a puppy. A Harlequin puppy. A Harlequin puppy that looked exactly like my late, heart dog, Murray’s father.

My emotions completely overruled common sense. I contacted Rene, the head of the rescue. He mentioned he’d only had the pup for a few days, and hadn’t even put online yet.

In one of those moments that makes no sense, except that it happened, I filled out the application and sent it. I figured Rene would be deluged with responses - there are about a million people on that Facebook page. And they are all Great Dane fanatics.

 I assumed I’d never hear from him again. I never win anything.

After I hit send on the app, I took Jasper for a walk. It was lovely. After a ton of hard work on both of our parts, Jasper  had turned into a very nice dog.

By the time we got home, there was a call from Rene. We chatted for a long time, and he told me the dog - his name, soon to be changed, was Reggie -  was mine.

I said I could pick him up in a couple of days. He suggested I come by the next day. Which is how, on one of the hottest days of the summer, I found myself driving to San Marcos with a puppy-sized crate in the back of my SUV.

I arrived at the address on a quiet tidy street. It was a normal-looking house. It was also really quiet. The only sign that this was a Great Dane rescue were the pallets of dog food by the door. I rang the bell and was greeted by the sound of a tiny dog barking wildly.

The door opened and there were three stunning, white, hearing/sight impaired Great Danes  (breeding harlequin to  harlequin, or merle to merle effort to create puppies with spots often results in disabled dogs) and a tiny, Dashound, who obviously ran the place. Rene, brought up the rear. I barely noticed him.

The three white Danes were beautiful, perfectly trained and not for adoption. Any one of them was better behaved than any dog I’ve ever owned. Or met. Did I mention they were deaf and mostly blind?

Rene took me into the backyard, which, thanks to artificial turf, was also impeccable.

“Are you ready to meet Reggie?” he asked.

I nodded, and he put the pretty white dogs in the house and disappeared around the corner to get Reggie.

A few minutes later an enormous, gangly, elephant of a dog came bounding towards me. He was almost the size of Jasper, but with the clumsiness of a puppy.

When he spotted me, the pup ran behind Rene and barked at me with a grown dog bark.  He clung to Rene like Velcro. 

Rene went into the house to get the paperwork, and the puppy followed, slamming into the glass door with a crash. He picked himself up and crashed into the door again.

No doubt he really was five months old. No question.

I sat on the ground and ignored Reggie (soon-to-be JP) while I talked to Rene and filled out forms.

“I brought way too small a crate,” I said. The puppy sidled up to me warily. He ran away, and then rushed back. He tried to stop but instead fell into my lap and drooled on me. I scratched his ear. If he could have purred, he would have. Instead he drooled more.

“He doesn’t need a crate.” Said Rene. “I took him to the vet this morning to get microchipped and he was perfect in the car. Oh, he was 87 pounds. “

I gulped. Jasper was 50 pounds at five months.

He added proudly, “He’s going to be big. Look at those feet.”

They were huge. His legs were the size of Murray’s, and at 35 inches at the withers, Murray was not a small dog.

“I imagine he’s going to be between 160 and 180 when he’s done,” Rene added merrily.

I felt myself go pale, and it wasn’t because of the heat.

It was a good thing that by that time I was awash in drool and in love.  

As almost an aside Rene said, “He’s not terrific on a leash yet. His owner got sick and didn’t have time for him.” 

Okay then. I felt a tiny twinge of misgiving, but I shoved it away. He was so cute.

Between the two of us, Rene and I  maneuvered the dog into the car.   Rene was right. JP was a champ in the car. It took forever to get home, but he settled into the backseat, with his head on the console and occasionally my right arm. By the time we pulled into my driveway, four hours later, we were bonded. And I was soaked with drool.

.

A social life is overrated anyway. With three Great Danes I’m never alone.