We got up early this morning to drive to Windsor, Connecticut, 90 minutes to the north, to take ownership of our new puppy, an apricot standard poodle named "Bluey" a birthday gift from my wife. Our previous dog, Bridgette, passed away at the beginning of the summer. We had mourned her enough and now it was time to consider the possibility that another dog might be capable of taking her place.
A few words about Bridgette. She was a Husky/ Shepard/ Golden Retriever cross, who had inherited the worst genetic traits of each breed. She shed like a Shepard, leaving golden hair across every piece of furniture and clothes (but particularly block clothing to which she seemed drawn magnetically); she exhibited the goofy enthusiastic affection of a Golden, approaching every stranger as though they were a long lost littermate in desperate need of a tongue-grooming; and she had that weird husky thing of moaning at the moon while others were hoping to sleep.
A standard poodle, we hoped would be hypoallergenic, thoughtful, and have a Je ne sais qua attitude about strangers. And because they were big enough, you could wedge your feet under them on chill winter nights.
We packed up the Element, trying to anticipate what we would need. "I hope you're bringing the crate," my wife said, "because I'm not going to hold this dog in my lap for an hour and a half.
The 42" crate, courtesy of Amazon Prime (free shipping, 42lbs. you can't beat that in a economic downturn!) was a bitch to carry out to the car, and rattled through the whole ride. Babs attempt to quiet the ride by stuffing towels into the cracks between the panels was not entirely successful.
"What kind of name is that--Bluey?"
"A French name," I replied, "for a French dog. Because their black coats had a blueish sheen, they were often called bleu. One of the greatest poodles of all times was Louis the IVX's poodle, Bluey 3.5. On his coast of arms was written Apres moi, la poop!"
"You're making this up."
"Yes," I admitted. I drove for a while, alert to the traffic. "The name suggests a world-weary, chanteuse, a canine Edith Piaf. One who has seen the underside of Le Beau Monde but chooses to go on because of the songs of Irving Berlin, the poetry of Rimbaud, the bitter taste of a Gauloise at 3:00 AM, the silhouettes of couples walking down the Champs d'Elysee in the rain."
My wife turned on the radio and turned up the volume.
"I call him bluey," Bob Marcin, the breeder, explained, when we arrived at his home, "because he's got a blue ribbon around his neck. See, each puppy's got a different colored ribbon. There's Gracey, and Red, and Greeney, and so forth. That's how you can tell 'em apart. Of course I can tell 'em apart because I know them. But this system is good for the purchaser."
Indeed, each of the seven adorable puppies--five black, two apricot--had a different colored ribbon around the neck. The one I had picked out with my son a few weeks before before had a blue ribbon.
"Can I hold him?" The Reverend asked, her eyes welling with tears (this happens not infrequently.)
"Sure," Bob said, scooping up the puppy in one hand a passing it along to her.
She held it over her shoulder and started cooing to it and nuzzling it.
"So, shall we put it in the crate?" I suggested.
She looked at me like I'd just suggested roasting it for dinner.
"That crate is a death trap," she muttered." She held the puppy up to her face and stared into his eyes. "You could get hurt banging around back there... couldn't you bubby-wubby? Yes, you could!"
Se we drove back with Bluey curled into her lap, all the way back to Rhode Island.
He threw up on her at the intersection of Route 2 and 84, about 20 miles from home.
Can you take some photographs of the puppy in rhode island? Perhaps him chewing on your slipper?
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