Puppy Obsession~

I'm completely obsessed with our new puppies. Although, I have to say, I feel a bit like a schoolteacher who has one scholarship student and two moneyed prep students in my charge. They've been with us about a month now, and I'm slowly beginning to understand Basenji language, which is quite different from other dogs I've had.

Today, for instance, the female, Bibi, gave me a privileged and withering look that said as plain as if it were written in any book, "We're not doing anything bad, besides José said it was okay to play with his kitten." Well, I know José did say it was okay, but I think three puppies and one small kitten is no match, even with the claws. When the little Basenji male, Chacho, pulled at the kitten's tail while Bibi darted at the head and the mix, Hale, moved around to the side, I told them, "Leave it!"

When Bibi refused, I picked her up and took her home. She spent most of the rest of the morning ignoring my commands to "come" or "sit." We had a short leash induced Sit-Stay-Come session. Then I ignored her.

A little before noon I was talking to Alan out in his shop when I felt a wet nose on my calf. Bibi, wiggling her tail and wanting up. I think the thing about these dogs–– as opposed to terriers, for instance–– is that they are strongly bonded to their owners, so ignoring them is the worst of punishments.

My friend, Gary, sent me a letter telling of someone he knew who left two Basenjis in the car while he did some business at a radio station. Gary didn't say how long the man was in there, but it was obviously too long for the dogs. They tore out the man's entire back seat.

Yes, Basenjis don't like being left alone and they don't like being bored. Think four-year-old children. Out Of Bounds I believe is how Dr. Spock described the age.

They also have a reputation of being snarky when awakened suddenly. The advice is to wake them with words first before picking them up out of a sound sleep. I told Alan I'm a bit that way myself to which he readily agreed.

***


My days start at five when the sky is still steel gray and dew is heavy in the potrero. I get dressed, load my pockets with liver cubes, and head out the door. There I am met by three wiggling, jumping, happy dogs wanting to go for a walk. If I pull on my rubber boots, spray up for mosquitoes, and head out of our front yard fast enough, they do their business on the walk and not on the porch.

The four of us walk down the yard and past the mammoth fig tree that borders the potrero. It stands 150 feet tall, its upper branches filled with bromeliads the size of Volkswagens and its gargantuan root system flaring away from the trunk like the gray fortress walls of a castle. The Great black hawk lives up there and some mornings I hear its high keening call as we pass by.

Then we cross one of the many drainage ditches and walk beside it down to the bottom of our property line. For several mornings this week I've noticed tracks in the mud at the bottom of the ditch and wondered what would make a trail like that. There is a flat track about three inches wide flanked by tiny footprints not an inch apart. The track is straight and purposeful. One morning the trail stopped abruptly and went back from where it had come. No iguana or Basilisk lizard could make a trail like that. I think to myself: snake, from the dragging center line, but their movements are more tortuous, and they don't have feet. So what could it be?


This morning, as we crossed back over the ditch at the far western edge of the property, there was a small puddle under the board-bridge where the water has yet to evaporate from the last rains. The bottom wriggled a life of black pollywogs, struggling to survive in their restricted world. In the middle of all this sat a small box turtle, feasting on the pollywogs. I was afraid the dogs would discover him and moved on, but realized the riddle of the tracks in the ditch had been solved.

Half way up the potrero, the first faint rays of light fingered their way through the ragged jungle to the east and I heard the howlers calling to each other. The dogs stopped at their own pace to relieve themselves.Then they all had noses to the ground intent on the smells of things that passed in the night.

Hale (like a good scholarship student) is the best at following commands and is often the retriever for the other two. None of them would come this morning, though. Passing under a madera negra tree, where a whole troop of howler monkeys gamboled in the branches above, the little dogs feasted on monkey scat while the howlers grunk grunked over their heads. I watched the monkeys slip from limb to limb as gold rays stretched out across the meadow. Then I moved up the way.

My rubber boots clunked steadily against my shins as I walked along the swampy bottomland toward the eastern border of the potrero. The little dogs eventually tired of the scat and raced through the damp grass to my feet, sat up expectantly, asking for a bit of liver. On our way back, I passed the monkey flower tree which is in bloom right now and smelling of Lily of the Valley. I picked some flowers and as we passed Kasha's grave I tossed them there for her.

Then it was back to the house for dried kibble and a good clean up while I made breakfast.

They will nap off and on for a couple of hours and then it will be another walk, round about ten. And another in the late afternoon: Cat Crazy Time, as my mother calls it. Then they wheel out in front of me and race down the potrero, bulldozing dried leaves out of the way.















The Basenjis intentionally trip themselves, doing somersaults in the grass. They graze like Angus cows and chase each other until Hale's tongue hangs to the ground and her sides heave. And the Basenjis? They barely get a pant up.

So, it's walking, playing, and a lot of chewing! And, like many scholarship children, Miss Hale doesn't feel that what she is given is nearly as nice as what the privileged kids get (even when she has an identical chew toy herself).

Miss Hale in her favorite mode...with something in her mouth.