Click, Click, Click
by Mary Ann Fuller Young
We meet July 8th, 2008. Short of stature, Mercedes wears a coarse coat, pale gold like Fels Naptha, a contrast to that of my gorgeous thirteen year old, Barnes, his fur like swan feathers. They both hail from a breeder of championship Labrador retrievers and are offspring of sires and bitches who compete in conformation and have ribbons as proof. In some fashion, Mercedes and Barnes are related.
As a name, Mercedes is over for me before it begins. Barnes and I ride 500 miles from our South Burlington, Vermont home to the breeder in Frenchtown, New Jersey to fetch Mercedes who willingly hops into the trunk of my Subaru and curls up close to Barnes’s flank. When we three head home, she sits up to check the scenery and catches my eye in the rear view mirror. “Hello Lulu” I say. She cocks her head in recognition of a new name that suddenly just pops into my head and fits her perfectly. Later I make the connection that Lulu was the nickname for my beloved nanny, Louise.
Lulu’s length from scarred lip to tucked tail seems too long for a Labrador. She, a pup herself at fourteen months, is still showing signs of birthing eight fat, strong, healthy pedigreed pups the color of sweet sue corn.
Black skin surrounds Lulu’s mouth as if she had stuck her snout into a pail of soft and sticky licorice. Blackness droops from her eyes too, like a lady of the night’s heavy mascara falling after long hours of cavorting. I tire of explaining, but I respond politely to all who ask “What’s wrong with her nose, her eyes, her face…what happened?”
At four weeks Lulu contracted Strangles, an uncommon puppyhood nodular and pustular skin disorder of unknown origin. Because of her facial disfigurations as well as red eyelids that are missing pigment and sparse and spiky lashes, Lulu is a gift to me, and will become a priceless gem, a dog who comes when she is called, can walk with me in the neighborhood or the woods off leash, and sits quietly by my side when I ask her to find a place.
However, my to-be-priceless gem looks around the living room briefly when we arrive home and scoots upstairs to the guest room and deposits a little bundle. I do not pretend to understand dogs but I interpret this as a statement that she is moving in. The indoor bundle is a once only event.
The skin on the tip of Lulu’s nose is so thin when I get her that she emerges bloody, her tail high and swishing gaily like a pendulum, after she sniffs and hunts in the brush when we walk (I walk, she flies like a gazelle) at Red Rocks Park. A tiny scab develops even before our jaunt is over. At home I slather her nose with coconut oil.
I grin just thinking about her infectious giddiness. With a bow, Lulu invites Barnes to play. He most often indicates nay, turns the other cheek, and there she goes… click, click, click…prancing on the cherry, hardwood floors. Down the hall, through the living room, under a table. She comes back, my purple croc sandal held high above her head, sashays around Barnes and then goes again… click, click, click, strutting down the hall, through the living room, to my closet and returns, my pale blue croc sandal held high above her head.
Lulu can dig to the bottom of the toy box to unearth the cow hoof, toss it into the air, catch it on a spin or it crashes onto the floor and slides away until she gathers it in her soft mouth and brings it to me, not to give it to me, mind you, just to show it to me. Lulu. Special kind of retriever.
I'll have what he’s having, she lets me know at lunchtime on the three season porch. I give Barnes his large leaf of romaine. Lulu can’t wait for her piece, shreds it, discards it with disgust: Not my idea of lunch. Barnes chews his organic carrot; Lulu rolls her carrot over her lips, deposits tiny slivers on the rug, then tries to take Barnes’ carrot out of his mouth. He sucks up all the slivers. Lulu turns her attention to the cluster of flies that is a fixture of Vermont and hovers along the edges of the windows.
Who goes there, Lulu squeals with a high-pitched pronouncement that we must be on guard against a grasshopper that appears by the porch door. Barnes replies with his deep, guttural boom boom and heads to the front door. My protection team is at work.
Click… click…click… Lulu beats a path from the front door to the back door. She trails Barnes everywhere as he teaches her the ropes, my ropes. We three travel together. A friend builds a ramp to make it easier for Barnes to get into the car when he can no longer make the jump and to relieve me from lifting him. Barnes’ passion is riding in the car.
One Sunday afternoon, six months after Lulu moves in, we are returning from a walk in the woods and I hear, “Come on, Barnes, you can do it. We’re almost home.” I turn to see my ten-year-old grandson, Toby, repositioning Barnes’ backend as he starts to collapse in the snow. Toby gives Barnes a body hug and side-by-side they walk home, slowly.
At suppertime Barnes turns his head away from his dish of food, something he has never done before. I always say he would walk across Egypt for a snack. I offer him his favorite treat, banana smeared with peanut butter and, again, he turns his regal head away. Later he lets me know that he wants to stay in the kitchen, instead of sleeping on his bed in my bedroom as he always does with Lulu and me. I awake and know to go to him at 2:00 a.m. He is in a spread eagle position; he lifts his head slightly. I tell him once again, as I have been saying for fourteen years, what a beautiful and wonderful puppy, puppy he is. (From day one I call him “puppy, puppy” in a lilting high-pitched voice he recognizes.) By 4:00 a.m. he lets go. Lulu comes in the kitchen. She sniffs all around his body and licks his face. Goodbye. She curls up close to Barnes’s flank until it is time for us to go.
Barnes’s ashes, the quilt I wrapped him in, his forth place AKC ribbon and the prize money ($2.00), his first place best of brood certificate, his hard earned ribbons from three, maybe four obedience schools, are together in an antique grain box at the foot of my bed. I miss seeing his head pop up to greet me at daybreak. I settle for faint squeals, sloppy kisses, and Lulu’s inquisitive brown eyes the color of fudge saying, “Can we get up now?”
Mary Ann Fuller Young’s favorite place to be in January is at the Key West Literary Seminar. She is a graduate of the Vermont College of Fine Arts with a masters degree in creative non-fiction and is writing a memoir on Alzheimer’s titled Plainly and Simply.
by Mary Ann Fuller Young
We meet July 8th, 2008. Short of stature, Mercedes wears a coarse coat, pale gold like Fels Naptha, a contrast to that of my gorgeous thirteen year old, Barnes, his fur like swan feathers. They both hail from a breeder of championship Labrador retrievers and are offspring of sires and bitches who compete in conformation and have ribbons as proof. In some fashion, Mercedes and Barnes are related.
As a name, Mercedes is over for me before it begins. Barnes and I ride 500 miles from our South Burlington, Vermont home to the breeder in Frenchtown, New Jersey to fetch Mercedes who willingly hops into the trunk of my Subaru and curls up close to Barnes’s flank. When we three head home, she sits up to check the scenery and catches my eye in the rear view mirror. “Hello Lulu” I say. She cocks her head in recognition of a new name that suddenly just pops into my head and fits her perfectly. Later I make the connection that Lulu was the nickname for my beloved nanny, Louise.
Lulu’s length from scarred lip to tucked tail seems too long for a Labrador. She, a pup herself at fourteen months, is still showing signs of birthing eight fat, strong, healthy pedigreed pups the color of sweet sue corn.
Black skin surrounds Lulu’s mouth as if she had stuck her snout into a pail of soft and sticky licorice. Blackness droops from her eyes too, like a lady of the night’s heavy mascara falling after long hours of cavorting. I tire of explaining, but I respond politely to all who ask “What’s wrong with her nose, her eyes, her face…what happened?”
At four weeks Lulu contracted Strangles, an uncommon puppyhood nodular and pustular skin disorder of unknown origin. Because of her facial disfigurations as well as red eyelids that are missing pigment and sparse and spiky lashes, Lulu is a gift to me, and will become a priceless gem, a dog who comes when she is called, can walk with me in the neighborhood or the woods off leash, and sits quietly by my side when I ask her to find a place.
However, my to-be-priceless gem looks around the living room briefly when we arrive home and scoots upstairs to the guest room and deposits a little bundle. I do not pretend to understand dogs but I interpret this as a statement that she is moving in. The indoor bundle is a once only event.
The skin on the tip of Lulu’s nose is so thin when I get her that she emerges bloody, her tail high and swishing gaily like a pendulum, after she sniffs and hunts in the brush when we walk (I walk, she flies like a gazelle) at Red Rocks Park. A tiny scab develops even before our jaunt is over. At home I slather her nose with coconut oil.
I grin just thinking about her infectious giddiness. With a bow, Lulu invites Barnes to play. He most often indicates nay, turns the other cheek, and there she goes… click, click, click…prancing on the cherry, hardwood floors. Down the hall, through the living room, under a table. She comes back, my purple croc sandal held high above her head, sashays around Barnes and then goes again… click, click, click, strutting down the hall, through the living room, to my closet and returns, my pale blue croc sandal held high above her head.
Lulu can dig to the bottom of the toy box to unearth the cow hoof, toss it into the air, catch it on a spin or it crashes onto the floor and slides away until she gathers it in her soft mouth and brings it to me, not to give it to me, mind you, just to show it to me. Lulu. Special kind of retriever.
I'll have what he’s having, she lets me know at lunchtime on the three season porch. I give Barnes his large leaf of romaine. Lulu can’t wait for her piece, shreds it, discards it with disgust: Not my idea of lunch. Barnes chews his organic carrot; Lulu rolls her carrot over her lips, deposits tiny slivers on the rug, then tries to take Barnes’ carrot out of his mouth. He sucks up all the slivers. Lulu turns her attention to the cluster of flies that is a fixture of Vermont and hovers along the edges of the windows.
Who goes there, Lulu squeals with a high-pitched pronouncement that we must be on guard against a grasshopper that appears by the porch door. Barnes replies with his deep, guttural boom boom and heads to the front door. My protection team is at work.
Click… click…click… Lulu beats a path from the front door to the back door. She trails Barnes everywhere as he teaches her the ropes, my ropes. We three travel together. A friend builds a ramp to make it easier for Barnes to get into the car when he can no longer make the jump and to relieve me from lifting him. Barnes’ passion is riding in the car.
One Sunday afternoon, six months after Lulu moves in, we are returning from a walk in the woods and I hear, “Come on, Barnes, you can do it. We’re almost home.” I turn to see my ten-year-old grandson, Toby, repositioning Barnes’ backend as he starts to collapse in the snow. Toby gives Barnes a body hug and side-by-side they walk home, slowly.
At suppertime Barnes turns his head away from his dish of food, something he has never done before. I always say he would walk across Egypt for a snack. I offer him his favorite treat, banana smeared with peanut butter and, again, he turns his regal head away. Later he lets me know that he wants to stay in the kitchen, instead of sleeping on his bed in my bedroom as he always does with Lulu and me. I awake and know to go to him at 2:00 a.m. He is in a spread eagle position; he lifts his head slightly. I tell him once again, as I have been saying for fourteen years, what a beautiful and wonderful puppy, puppy he is. (From day one I call him “puppy, puppy” in a lilting high-pitched voice he recognizes.) By 4:00 a.m. he lets go. Lulu comes in the kitchen. She sniffs all around his body and licks his face. Goodbye. She curls up close to Barnes’s flank until it is time for us to go.
Barnes’s ashes, the quilt I wrapped him in, his forth place AKC ribbon and the prize money ($2.00), his first place best of brood certificate, his hard earned ribbons from three, maybe four obedience schools, are together in an antique grain box at the foot of my bed. I miss seeing his head pop up to greet me at daybreak. I settle for faint squeals, sloppy kisses, and Lulu’s inquisitive brown eyes the color of fudge saying, “Can we get up now?”
Mary Ann Fuller Young’s favorite place to be in January is at the Key West Literary Seminar. She is a graduate of the Vermont College of Fine Arts with a masters degree in creative non-fiction and is writing a memoir on Alzheimer’s titled Plainly and Simply.