Scheduled Sundays

Sunday is my favorite day of the week. I love the relaxing atmosphere: open windows, coffee and an assortment of breakfast items that are leisurely made or eaten until around noon, football games, loose yoga clothes, and once evening hits, the ambiance of candles and oil burners. Murphy gets a break from the treadmill and spends his time sleeping or basking in the sun or watching me weave in and out of rooms, attempting to accomplish one task or another.

He hasn't always been so quiet. As a puppy, he had a list of bad habits: raiding the litter box for "cat truffles," stealing the can of wet cat food, stealing my socks, chewing holes into various undergarments, trying to lick any breakfast item on the kitchen table, tearing up any and all paperwork on the floor, escaping from the house and eating all pieces of animal crap that's on our neighbor's lawn...and so on, and so forth. The gross stuff was endless, and I have no doubt that they were the main reason Murphy was returned to the breeder. No one wants to put up with a problem puppy. No one can relax with a problem puppy unless, of course, you're me.

I am a strict dog owner. I owe a lot of my A-type personality to my no-nonsense upbringing, and although I've mellowed over the years, when it comes to the dog, I like the idea of keeping a very short leash. Since the first few months I brought him home, Murphy has followed the same routine: potty, treadmill, food, sleep. With age comes more freedom, so there are times, like today, when he's allowed to skip his exercise and head straight to breakfast. Other Sundays I've brought him to the dog park, or to a friend's house, or let him lounge beneath my chair at the local Starbucks.

We relax. Me with my Pumpkin Spice latte, and Murphy with his bowl of water, because the strict routine is enforced with intense training. Murphy knows his basic obedience commands (as well as others, like "Go potty" and "bedtime") because I've drilled them into his somewhat non-existent brain. It wasn't exactly the easiest process; Murphy is extremely impulsive. His attention span only lasts a few seconds, and then he's off doing whatever he'd like to do, instead of everything I want him to do. My life as a dog owner has, at times, been frustrating and stressful and overwhelming. But Murphy is food motivated.  Over time, the repetitive nature of "sit" and "stay" have evolved primarily from slipped pieces of cheese, and become permanently ingrained in his head. We've curbed the less desirable behaviors, though they haven't been entirely eliminated. It's been three years and Murphy still eats shit. He still chews on paperwork, and he steals the cat food whenever the opportunity arises.

But he does it less.

He's less prone to push his way out of the house. He doesn't chase the cats as much anymore. Only some of my clothes have holes, and I can guilt trip him out of the kitchen, instead of physically having to remove him. Sometimes, he'll watch out the window, instead of constantly bark. Mostly, he just sleeps.

And while he's sleeping, I drink the last of my Starbucks coffee. I write my blog and listen to the game and soon, I'll light some candles. Dinner will come and Murphy may or may not go on the treadmill. He'll go out and then go to bed and once again, I'll think about how far he's come since he first came home.

It's become routine.

Creating the Dog

Creating the Dog
Katie Walsh

I. Labradoodles, like all purebreds, were created for a reason.

The first Labradoodle was intentionally bred in 1988, by Wally Conron, after he received a call from a visually blind woman in Hawaii, who needed a hypoallergenic service dog. Intrigued by the idea, Conron crossed one of his Labrador Retrievers with a Standard Poodle, and successfully created Sultan, the world’s first allergy friendly “Doodle."

Instantly, Labradoodles became an overnight sensation. Energetic, willing to please, and incredibly smart, the dogs have become popular family additions. They’re versatile in size, ranging from Standard to Miniature, and come in two specific types: the Australian Labradoodle and the American Labradoodle.

Australian Labradoodles are the dogs continuing the work begun by Conron, and are a mix of Poodle, Irish Water Spaniel, Cocker Spaniel, and Labrador Retriever. They aren’t seen as frequently as the American Labradoodle, because these dogs are bred specifically with the hopes of eventually becoming an AKC registered breed. In 2007, the Australian Labradoodle Association of American (ALAA) created a breed standard, which determines that Australian Labradoodles should be between 14 and 24 inches tall (no taller than 25 inches) and weigh between 15 and 65 pounds. Each dog should have a proportionate head, a square, compact body, round eyes, flat ears, and large, square, fleshy nose.*

The American Labradoodle, which is the most common and therefore referred to as just the “Labradoodle,” is a combination of Labrador Retriever and Poodle. They adhere to the same breed standards as the Australian Labradoodle, but are differentiated by a pedigree descriptor scheme. Any Labradoodle puppy that is fifty percent Labrador and fifty percent Poodle is called a First Generation Labradoodle. A Labradoodle who is seventy-five percent poodle and twenty-five percent Labrador (achieved by breeding a First Generation Labradoodle back to a Poodle) is called a Second Generation Labradoodle, and so on, and so forth.

There are few differences between the two types of Doodles—Australian Labradoodles are a mix of more breeds, and thus have a tendency to be smaller than the Labradoodle—but the most noticeable is their coat. All Doodles, Labradoodle or otherwise, can sport three different coat types: Flat (also known as Hair), Fleece, or Wool. In Australian Labradoodles, Fleece coats, distinguishable by its loose, wavy appearance and incredibly soft texture, and Wool coats, which look exactly like the tight curls common to Poodles, are the most common and desirable. Both are allergy and asthma friendly, and are part of the ALAA breed standard. 

Flat coats are less frequent in Australian Labradoodles—in fact, any coat besides Fleece or Wool is considered a fault—but are the most common coat in First Generation Labradoodles. These coats are more wiry in appearance, are not allergy friendly and, unlike the Fleece and Wool coats, do shed.

It’s common for Labradoodles to come in a wide variety of colors and patterns. Breed standards state that both types of Labradoodle can be solid, such as black, chocolate, or gold, as well as any diluted solid color, such as silver, café, or caramel. ALAA permits the dogs to appear like their Poodle ancestors, whose coats often come in a handful of patterns. Labradoodles and Australian Labradoodles can be Parti, or white with patches of solid colors, Phantom, which appears similar to the markings on a Doberman Pinscher or Rottweiler, Brindle, Sable, or Multi.

Besides their coats, Labradoodles are known for their personable, happy temperaments. Both types should exhibit a keen intelligence, an intuition of an individual's emotional state, and display an eagerness to learn and perform for their family or handler.

II. Labradoodles, like most purebreds, come with their fair share of controversy.

They’ve been labeled “Designer Dogs” by the purebred community and are seen as the latest trend; a hot commodity; the newest fad. Many claim that Labradoodles are in high demand due, in part, to a phenomenon known as “hybrid vigor,” or the idea that puppies will be healthier and less prone to purebred diseases than their Labrador and Poodle parents. While it’s true that some dogs, like the First Generation Labradoodles, are sometimes healthier than their purebred parents, hybrid vigor doesn’t always occur in the crossbred offspring. Labradoodles suffer from the same hip dysplasia common in both Labs and Poodles, as well as eye disorders such as Progressive retinal atrophy. Australian Labradoodle can suffer from the occasionally fatal Addison’s disease, which affects the dog’s adrenal glands.

Of course hybrid vigor is only a small part of the Labradoodle controversies. Others include: the belief that Labradoodles don't shed; they're nothing more than popular mutts; they’re too expensive; they perpetuate backyard breeding; and buying a Labradoodle—any Designer Dog—means condemning a dog in a shelter to death.

All of it’s true. Labradoodles, Poodle-mixes, and other “hybrid breeds,” are currently crowding shelters all over the United States. Most often, the Doodles’ initial popularity and good looks are forgotten once an owner realizes the extent of their dog’s training and grooming. Labrador Retrievers are a high-energy breed, who need frequent and continual exercise, and Poodles are one of the most intelligent breeds of dog, second only to the to the Border Collie. The combination results in an extremely smart, happily energetic dog, who may or may not shed. Coupled with grooming expenses (Doodles require regular grooming every six weeks or so), most Labradoodle puppies are too much for their owner or family to handle, and end up suddenly abandoned. Many never find homes and must be humanely euthanized.

In an effort to dissuade the continuation of these glorified "hybrids," AKC clubs, such as the Labrador Retriever Club or the Poodle Club of America, don’t recognize the Labradoodle and don’t want to see it turn into an official purebred breed. Breeders and dog lovers alike are fervently protesting the mix of genes, and instead directing potential adopters towards shelters, rescues, or their own purebred breed. It’s done little to stop the Doodle craze, however, and backyard breeders are popping up everywhere, eager to cash in on the latest dog trend.

The best thing you can do is research the crossbreed before adding it to your home. Ask about reputable breeders who are working towards establishing the Labradoodle breed, or check out rescues, such as the International Doodle Owners Group, Inc. (IDOG), Poo-Mix Rescue, and Petfinder. Currently, there are hundreds of abandoned or surrendered Doodles still waiting patiently for a loving forever home.


*Australian Labradoodle and Labradoodle breed standards, as of 2007.


Images courtesy of: 
Doodle Rescue Collective, Inc. 
Wikipedia
Sunset Hills Australian Labradoodles

Busted. Again.

Ten minutes ago, I was working on an essay for this blog. A bird, a little brown wren, flew in through an open window. I heard it flying around the kitchen and immediately panicked. I have cats. They like to catch and kill little animals.

I quickly corralled them downstairs, then somehow corralled the frightened bird outside.

In the meantime, Murphy quietly pushed past the baby gate (yes, even though he's three, I still rely on baby gates) that was propped on the front stairs and took it upon himself to "clean out" one of the litterboxes. He would have gotten away with it, too, if not for the tell-tale pieces of litter clinging to his chin.

Needless to say, I wasn't very thankful for his "help." He's currently serving time in the pokey, also known as the back deck. I hope he uses the next half-hour to reflect on his poor choices, though, knowing him, he'll just pass the time by licking himself.

Oops.

Once upon a time, the owl had a face. And feet. And a longer ribbon.

Edit: The Beginning

I was absolutely unprepared. I hadn't planned on a dog; I'd been browsing the internet, looking at breeders and photos, when I suddenly stumbled across a big, floppy, Muppet-looking puppy. Two days later, I was unexpectedly a dog owner. Murphy was mine, arriving from Michigan any minute, and I didn't have anything ready.

Homecoming

Murphy refused to come out of his crate. The entire drive home from the airport, he stayed curled on top of the shredded newspaper, as far from the metal door as he could get. I talked to him softly, with words meant to comfort and coax, but he refused to make eye contact, choosing instead to watch the world pass outside the car window. An occasional quiver ran through his body, rustling the paper and making his floppy ears tremble.

I didn't know what to do. Here was a puppy who had his life completely uprooted; torn away from his mother, put in a car for the first time in his life, thrown into a crate, and hustled into the cargo space of some big commercial plane. At eight months, he was nervous and cautious and immune to my voice. I could comfort a small puppy, eight weeks into the world and happy for human contact. Murphy was older and unaffected. It made me, and my good intentions, useless.

I wondered if every first time owner felt this way, and if his behavior (and my ineffectiveness) was some ominous sign about the relationship I was going to have with my dog.

Two hours after arriving at Dulles, Mom and I pulled up to our driveway. The car rolling to a stop a few yards from the house and my stepdad, Frank, opened the front door. From the depths of a brightly lit front hall, I heard excited shouts and the pounding of running feet. The welcoming committee. If Murphy wasn't scared now, he would be soon.

My siblings burst out of the house, crowding the trunk as I threw it open. Frank pulled the crate from the car and carried it into the house, settling it onto the clean, white rug of our family room. Sandy came and sniffed the door and I pushed everyone back, asking for quiet and space. After a moment's hesitation, I reached towards the wire crate door and untwisted the lock. It swung open. The house fell silent. Everyone watched, and waited.

Murphy didn't so much as twitch.

We still waited.

Five minutes later, he still hadn't moved.

Eventually, I got onto my hands and knees and peered into the crate. Murphy wouldn't look at me. I tried to offer him a dog biscuit. Dog food. Peanut butter. Still, nothing. I didn't know what to do; I was afraid to try to pull him out, mindful of what I learned when we first brought home Sandy: never try to force an unfamiliar dog to do anything. Although Murphy was mine, I didn't know him. I didn't know his health or personality. He could have rabies, or some type of previously unknown mid-West disease, or just some really infectious bacteria lurking around the recesses of his mouth. He could be mean.

I turned to Frank, who was big and scary looking and could handle a small, possibly mean-tempered, Cujo-like puppy. He gave me a look, a kind of "are you kidding me, this is your responsibility" eyebrow raise, before wordlessly reaching down to pull the top off the crate. Later, he told me the idea was for Murphy to "fly out," like a bird. Murphy flew all right. Paws over ears, he burst out in an explosion of paper shreds and chocolate-black fur. He raced and jumped and panted. He peed. He pooped. Everywhere.

A few hours later, after the piles were picked up and his energy abated, Murphy fell asleep at my feet. I watched his paws twitch and called out his name. Part of me expected him to pick up his head, or thump his tail, but all the dog did, was snore.

The Beginning

Murphy arrived in a big crate on a breath-stealing, bitter cold afternoon, somewhere towards the beginning of February 2008. It was a Saturday, and I remember leaving early in the morning, sometime between eight and nine, before I could throw on a second pot of coffee. Mom came with me, the experienced dog owner, and the two of us spent hours making excited, nervous pit-stops at Petsmart and Petco and Starbucks. By the time we finally pointed ourselves in the direction of Dulles Airport, the temperature had dropped, and I ached all over.

I was sick again, bundled to my ears in home knit scarves and mittens that were two sizes too big. A potent combination of allergies and chronic sinusitis stripped the familiar comforts of living; among many things, the old family dog, Sandy, was suddenly out of reach. Her fur was the only reminder of stormy nights at the foot of my bed, and the amber-white strands were everywhere; embedded into the fibers of my carpet and comforter, stuck to the tissue box and television screen, and I responded to her tiny forget-me-nots with watery eyes and marathon rounds of sneezing. For the first time in my life, I was allergic to the dog. I was allergic to dogs.

There was no way I could ever own a Golden Retriever.

I could, however, have part of one. I wasn't seriously looking for a puppy when I stumbled across Murphy's picture on a Goldendoodle website, one evening at school. Three quarters Poodle, a quarter Golden, and one-hundred percent hypoallergenic, he was everything I ever wanted: big and floppy, allergen free, and an absolute heart-breaker. I contacted his breeder the next day and somehow, Murphy was suddenly and unexpectedly mine.

Two weeks later, I walked into Dulles entirely unprepared. The puppy didn't have a name. I had forgotten to bring food and water and poop bags. The Red Sox collar still hadn't arrived and I really needed to call the vet. And the groomer. And a dog trainer. In the blur of passing time, there were so many things I'd forgotten to get or do; the only real thing I had with me, besides my mother and a bag full of dog toys, was a jumble of nerves and the cautious beginning of a hopeful love.

It was enough.

Murphy rolled off of the plane and into my life, scared and fluffy and small, and food and vets and baseball collars ceased to matter. In that moment, all Murphy needed was me. It's taken a long time to realize that, in those first few moments, I needed him, too.