Outside Your Office Window

OUTSIDE YOUR OFFICE WINDOW By: Robbie Pryor

Pryor, Priest & Harber

ROSIE

Dog stories resonate for a reason. This story will put a cap on dog stories for me (I promise), and we will be able to move on to other subjects together…If you are not a dog person, I’m sorry. You can wait for the next column, but it won’t be about a cat. [Note: I like cats. But I’m allergic].

There is a farm in Mount Pleasant, Tennessee where European White Golden Retrievers are bred. It is a slick operation, with a website that sucks you into the puppy world. In the wake of our 12-year-old Golden’s passing in January, the dilemma was that encountered by all pet owners - to get another dog or not. As with many big decisions, I left my wife to lead. I knew it wouldn’t take long. If you’ve owned the right dog, you understand. We began with dabbling. We had a great deal of fun getting on the Internet and social media looking at breeders and puppies. We talked of going back to one of the Golden Retriever rescue organizations. We were just having fun. No commitment. Then one afternoon, while Nancy was looking at the slick website, she came across a video of Chloe, the Golden who would be bred to Ben in middle Tennessee. Nancy was struck dumb by the look in her eyes. “It is Sophie,” she said. My wife doesn’t claim to be in touch with supernatural, but she does seem to have a knack for timing and an uncanny recognition of things others miss - things like the living spirit of our former pets in the eyes of other animals. Wow, what I just wrote looks so silly on paper, but, again, if you’ve owned the right dog…So, I put a deposit down in February for a female. I was number 7 in line for a girl born to two separate litters, but we were the only ones interested in Chloe’s puppies, specifically. I didn’t have an ounce of sticker shock, even in light of the fact I’ve paid less for a car. It is even more surprising given the fact that Sophie and Hope, our previous Goldens, had been free.

On April 12, seven puppies (4 girls and 3 boys) were born to Chloe. Due to the size of the other litter, we had our choice of Chloe’s girls. Each of the puppies had colored ribbons around their neck and were given “puppy names,” like Tulip, Daisy, Violet and Rose. We could track videos and photos online for the many weeks they nursed and then trained under the breeder’s guiding hands. I studied those videos like detectives review cctv videos on Forensic Files and Dateline. With each new photo or video, we analyzed behavior and cuteness to fit into some unspoken algorithm each of us held in our minds. We would have a choice, and we measured the decision as if the choice between three beautiful dogs would be life or death. The algorithm and prep resulted in a choice of Rose (the red ribbon). June 28 was the day of pickup. As we approached the farm, my wife leaned up on the edge of her seat, like a little girl getting ready to ride It’s a Small World at Disney for the first time. Rosie, the name eventually given after consultation with our children (mostly the girls), was waiting for us. (I wanted to name her Jolene, but I never win in these decisions). There would be no buyers remorse. As H.I. McDonnough (played by Nicolas Cage) said in Raising Arizona - “I think we got the best one.”

Yes, the puppy days are difficult. It reminds me of when our children were babies and when Sophie was a puppy - a whole lot of urine and chewing and crying. But isn’t that the point? Empty nesters, especially ones like us who have thrived on the chaos for so many years, seem to circle back around to chaos. We are not scared to invite more love into our lives, even at the risk of having our heart broken once again. Isn’t that the game? If you give yourself over, give your heart to something, you risk having it broken. The odds are that Rosie will give us 10 to 12 years, during which time she will become an integral part of our lives and the subject of a great deal of love, a love that is surely magnified by the absence of children in our home. Despite knowing her departure will kill us, we will become “those people.” We will be the old people who talk of their dog as if it is human. I have already become the man walking behind the small puppy and telling her what a good girl she is for crapping on the sidewalk and then picking it up with only a grocery bag separating my hand from her mess. What? Who am I? I’m a trial lawyer for the love of Pete! I find myself talking in a voice once reserved only for my children when they were infants and toddlers, and I really don’t care who hears it. What is happening? I’m preparing for a deposition and smell like dog urine, my arms look like I work part time as a scratching post, and Rosie is ripping up my favorite Ugg slippers (I love those things as much as I love anything that doesn’t breathe). I’ve pulled up my rugs, covered my O.P. Jenkins couch with towels. I get home and my living room looks like a daycare center with a crate in it, my wife playing the part of the overwhelmed kindergarten teacher at 3:00 p.m on a Wednesday. Words heard only when the kids were little fill our house - “You have to take over” - “Get a towel!” - “She’s awake” - “No!!!” I hadn’t realized we were missing so much. We are alive again!

When you are running a puppy to the door, it is easy to miss the bigger picture. I’m always in search of it and an understanding of what it all means. I may never have a clear answer, but I do know, for me, it includes squeaky toys and puppy breath.