Puppies are God’s idea of a perfect workout program. – Stephen King
My wife’s phone says this is the day, two years ago, I picked up Ragnar Brutha Gonzo at the City Slickers Ranch in Orlando. Don’t think he was eight weeks yet.
Seen the puppy a couple weeks earlier – kennel just happened to be on the way to the twin’s birthday fiesta – and he was the only male available.
Be honest I wanted a blue-eyed grey merle, and she had two, roly-poly females.
Did not say out loud, I don’t do bitches, did not.
But I don’t. No idea what females are thinking, but give me a boy dog, I can operate at his level.
Most of the time I know what he’s thinking before he does.
Not to mention I’m his first human and he’s my lost-count canine.
I’ve been trained plenty.
Umm, any males, I asked. She looked at me like I had just turned down two pearls and asked for a turd.
No idea what she was thinking.
Turns out she has one, a tri-color, her husband’s favorite, and she hollers and a useful-looking man comes through a door and sets this puppy down.
Little thing, a blur of black and white and brown, feet like snow shoes, runs the entire circumference – it’s a big room – dodging wires and furniture at a trot and he’s just perfect. I actually thought that.
And I already knew what he was thinking.
“Oh, shit, oh, shit, oh, shit, what’s that!”
Two weeks later he was glad to be out of there.
The breeder is a busy woman, I can appreciate that.
So, I understood while we waited as a chubby grey-haired couple picked up one of the chubby grey-haired girl puppies. The chubby wife hands over a personal check, “We’ve already bought booties for her.”
The breeder had insisted I bring the full amount in cash.
What must she been thinking?
