I don't want to write about my dog, but the dog is on my mind. I've googled, just to make sure, something about puppies and work and so I have mentally found commiseration for the thick slices of time that disappear in a day. Look, right now, while I type, my husband has brought the puppy out to pee and descended into silliness, congratulating the pee-on-grass and la-de-dahing "Joy to the world" while hopping about, eliciting a bark from Enzo who has woken up from the nap he takes during our supper. This is what a puppy does to you: it makes you silly. It can also be infuriating. I don't know why dogs like clumps of mown grass, but they do. Piles of mown grass hang about on city lawns like big temptations. Enzo strains at his leash just to get a mouthful. I attempted to make a lesson of it, held him back, gathered a clump of grass and took out treats. I was saying "leave it" in French while two women walked by pushing a stroller and I was crouched down, entirely focused on his brown eyes, repeating "laisse" to a sitting puppy in front of a clump of grass. He behaves for treats, but as soon as the lesson is over and the treats are put away, a mouthful of grass is his immediate quest. Far down the path, I tried this again, with a compacted clump of grass that resembled something like a brown grass cookie. My timing was off, or the leash was a bit too long, I'm not sure, but puppies have incredible speed and are dumber than children, and so he swallowed a bite faster than I could remove it and I had to aim my restraint toward my temper because it flared with all the glory of my Irish ancestry. Dogs are dumb, I tell myself, but they're also smart enough to learn how to manipulate the humans that ambulate around them. Enzo knows how to whimper pathetically for attention.
We go for a morning walk everyday. Some people look at this puppy and melt and say all kinds of sweet-puppy-dog things. Some people count us as another nuisance in their morning routine, and I tend to sympathize more with the latter. People can make you feel inordinately proud of this thing you've added to your life. The other day a man, walking with his wife said "that's the puppy I was talking to you about! He has beautiful markings..." The compliments make me feel strange because while I thank people, I am confronted by the fact that I had absolutely nothing to do with his appearance. I bought him the way people buy tools and accessories. I didn't even pick this puppy... the breeder picked it for us. Yet how many compliments I get for him. Did you know that a beagle won the Westminster dog show one year? Her name was Miss P. Enzo's breeder was contacted for comment on the story and she said, somewhat derisively, that her pups were bred for hunting rabbits, for running for 12 hours, and that Miss P. would probably be ill-suited for the job. The Krpan's who've been breeding beagles for 45 years don't care about looks and I appreciate their dismissal of the superficial. Still, Enzo's markings look beautiful in the morning light.