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.

Meet Murphy

I always wanted a Golden Retriever. A big, gentle male, with soft fur, soulful eyes, and a name that would richly mellow with age: Cooper, Sam, or Duke. Most of my dog daydreams were painted in watercolor; the pop of New England fall foliage, with splashes of feathered gold against the dry and dying grass; Polaroids, seconds forever stilled in time: a playful puppy, quiet adult, and ever devoted senior. I imagined the tranquility of a dog slumbering in front of a snapping winter fire and the quiet moments of patient window waiting.

I longed for a Golden Retriever. Instead, I wound up with this: 

 

Part Golden, part Poodle, part wild beast, Murphy is concrete and tar and everything opposite of the blurred edges of soft, halcyon dreams. He's big, with bear paws instead of feet, eyes that are molten and dark, and his fur is incredibly soft and wavy. Golden hues have been drowned beneath a french roast black and streaks of white and gray exaggerate his age. He looks imposing, a shaggy hell hound whose head is often lined with the black straps of a thick-banded black head halter, and is given a wide berth by those who are skittish and dog wary. His breath always smells bad, undoubtedly due, in part, to his atrocious, ungentleman-like habits, and premature neutering has left him perpetually floppy, dopey, and toddler-like. He is high energy and loud, obnoxious and needy. Destructive. Expensive. Frustrating.

And yet, despite all of this, Murphy is an animal that is incredibly easy to love. He is imperfect; flawed in heritage and being; a first-time dog owner's nightmare, and all of it makes him real. It takes work to own a dog, sweat and sometimes tears, and it's not always easy. Ownership isn't lyrical or pretty pastel paintings. It's gritty and gross and when it's done right, very rewarding.

Murphy isn't the dog I always wanted; he's the dog I never knew I needed. This blog is our written journey, full personal narratives, tips, tricks, and information that may be useful to anyone who loves, or is looking to love, man's best friend.