Testimony of a Saved Singleton, Part 3
Continued from Part 2:
In her first week with us, Daisy rarely emerged from her safe haven under the kitchen table unless we came in after her. She didn’t seem capable of much beyond basic body function and trembling so hard that she would fall over. But slowly, very slowly, the cautious pup began to emerge and mingle with her family. By the end of her second week she knew her name and made tiny, happy peeps whenever someone played with her. As further weeks passed into months and then years, she continued to develop at the kind of break-neck speed that’s been known to cause old ladies to say, “My, they grow up so quickly!”
In truth, my parents had wanted a dog for years before Daisy. Both had grown up with Spaniels but as adults didn’t feel ready for another pooch yet. Secretly my father’s heart was set on a Bulldog, secretly my mother’s on a Standard Poodle. As far as I can tell, when I asked for a dog, I got my wish mostly because it was an excuse to grant their own. But with a small child, they knew neither a grumpy Bull nor moped-sized Poodle would do. Instead they found Daisy, a member of the Cockapoo breed.
Never heard of a Cockapoo? Don’t feel bad, most people haven’t. A cross between a Cocker Spaniel and a Poodle, this obscenely-named breed seems to only be known by people who have stumbled upon owning one and their friends. Yet everyone who’s encountered this canine cocktail agrees that they are wonderful dogs-a perfect blend of sporty, chi-chi, and smart. Daisy herself is a slight variation though, the lone blonde in a litter born from a Cockapoo and a Poodle, I supposed you could call her a Cockapoo-poo. This lesson in race relations aside, for one reason or another, my dog is one of the smartest people I know and more than happy to share her wisdom with others.
It was made quite clear early on that she was my dog, which meant that I would have to feed, put out, and train her so that she could grow up right. In hindsight, I realize how little of this I was actually capable of doing at about five years old, but my parents put on their best show making it look like I was raising her. Everyday I had at least one or two responsibilities to take care of, which I would proudly do and that my parents do right later when I wasn’t looking.
If every life on Earth has a purpose, it seemed Daisy’s was surely to keep me from the potential horrors of Singletondom, or at least that may have been my parents’ purpose for her. If I had any aspirations to be self-centered I was out of luck, Little D effectively taught me that she relied on me to put her out and that it was not something I could do whenever I could get around to it. Unless, of course, I particularly enjoyed cleaning up after her-which I can proudly say I did not. She taught me how to share the spotlight too: with the beauty of my youth fading quickly at five years old, the family turned their attention to what a precious little thing Daisy was and, oh, they could just barely stand it. She was a master at stealing the show, just like all baby sisters are.
Daisy-Cricket also taught me how to work with people, how to give and take. Sometimes she needed attention and sometimes she needed to be alone. I had to learn quickly the kind of body language she used when she was not in the mood to play or, more likely, when I was annoying her. Whereas most siblings might have tattled on me for being a pest, Daisy’s approach was more direct-my sister bit. In the same way, she taught me that if you wanted something to happen, you often had to make it happen. For instance, if you want to play ball, you might have to throw the ball around yourself a few times before people get interested. Sociologist that she was, Daisy also knew the importance of flirting in human interaction. If she wanted something from you, that cute little blonde could strut her stuff and flaunt it with the best of them.
My sister taught me to think on my feet by modeling problem solving behavior-an ability, I’m told, that is helpful to have as a middle school teacher. For instance, what is a dog to do when she’s no bigger than a breadbox but has been barricaded in the kitchen all day with not a single scrap of newspaper for “emergency use?” Any lesser mutt would have accepted their fate and desecrated the sacred linoleum, but not Daisy. To her, the obvious answer was to scale the three-foot barricade in the door, climb the living room couch to the adjacent end table where my father’s crisp, unread Boston Globe lay and exercise her paper training thereupon. How could we punisher her? She made do (absolutely no pun intended).
As any good sibling would inform you though, sisterhood is not always about the good times. Every so often, being a big sister is the last thing you want to do. Daisy often became my shadow, following me around, whining, begging for attention. She’d paw at doors I locked behind me and howl until my mother would shout, “Jeez, Kate, the damn dog wants your attention!”
“Tell her to leave me alone!” I’d snap back, fully aware that Daisy was in earshot.
I even put her on the kitchen counter to keep her out of my hair from time to time. I knew that Formica fortress was just tall enough that she wouldn’t attempt to jump off. It worked perfectly, if you ignore the time my mother found out and the fact that Daisy has been afraid of heights ever since.
Yes, there were times when I wished I didn’t have a little sister, wished that I’d remained a Singleton. I’m sure that Daisy had moments, most likely those in which I chased her with the vacuum, when she wondered what it would have been like if she had been born first. Inevitably though, some true love of seventh or eighth or whatever grade would break my heart and Daisy was there to listen. For my part, she knew she could count on me whenever she needed a break from her leash to go chase some squirrels in the yard.
Conclusion tomorrow...
In her first week with us, Daisy rarely emerged from her safe haven under the kitchen table unless we came in after her. She didn’t seem capable of much beyond basic body function and trembling so hard that she would fall over. But slowly, very slowly, the cautious pup began to emerge and mingle with her family. By the end of her second week she knew her name and made tiny, happy peeps whenever someone played with her. As further weeks passed into months and then years, she continued to develop at the kind of break-neck speed that’s been known to cause old ladies to say, “My, they grow up so quickly!”
In truth, my parents had wanted a dog for years before Daisy. Both had grown up with Spaniels but as adults didn’t feel ready for another pooch yet. Secretly my father’s heart was set on a Bulldog, secretly my mother’s on a Standard Poodle. As far as I can tell, when I asked for a dog, I got my wish mostly because it was an excuse to grant their own. But with a small child, they knew neither a grumpy Bull nor moped-sized Poodle would do. Instead they found Daisy, a member of the Cockapoo breed.
Never heard of a Cockapoo? Don’t feel bad, most people haven’t. A cross between a Cocker Spaniel and a Poodle, this obscenely-named breed seems to only be known by people who have stumbled upon owning one and their friends. Yet everyone who’s encountered this canine cocktail agrees that they are wonderful dogs-a perfect blend of sporty, chi-chi, and smart. Daisy herself is a slight variation though, the lone blonde in a litter born from a Cockapoo and a Poodle, I supposed you could call her a Cockapoo-poo. This lesson in race relations aside, for one reason or another, my dog is one of the smartest people I know and more than happy to share her wisdom with others.
It was made quite clear early on that she was my dog, which meant that I would have to feed, put out, and train her so that she could grow up right. In hindsight, I realize how little of this I was actually capable of doing at about five years old, but my parents put on their best show making it look like I was raising her. Everyday I had at least one or two responsibilities to take care of, which I would proudly do and that my parents do right later when I wasn’t looking.
If every life on Earth has a purpose, it seemed Daisy’s was surely to keep me from the potential horrors of Singletondom, or at least that may have been my parents’ purpose for her. If I had any aspirations to be self-centered I was out of luck, Little D effectively taught me that she relied on me to put her out and that it was not something I could do whenever I could get around to it. Unless, of course, I particularly enjoyed cleaning up after her-which I can proudly say I did not. She taught me how to share the spotlight too: with the beauty of my youth fading quickly at five years old, the family turned their attention to what a precious little thing Daisy was and, oh, they could just barely stand it. She was a master at stealing the show, just like all baby sisters are.
Daisy-Cricket also taught me how to work with people, how to give and take. Sometimes she needed attention and sometimes she needed to be alone. I had to learn quickly the kind of body language she used when she was not in the mood to play or, more likely, when I was annoying her. Whereas most siblings might have tattled on me for being a pest, Daisy’s approach was more direct-my sister bit. In the same way, she taught me that if you wanted something to happen, you often had to make it happen. For instance, if you want to play ball, you might have to throw the ball around yourself a few times before people get interested. Sociologist that she was, Daisy also knew the importance of flirting in human interaction. If she wanted something from you, that cute little blonde could strut her stuff and flaunt it with the best of them.
My sister taught me to think on my feet by modeling problem solving behavior-an ability, I’m told, that is helpful to have as a middle school teacher. For instance, what is a dog to do when she’s no bigger than a breadbox but has been barricaded in the kitchen all day with not a single scrap of newspaper for “emergency use?” Any lesser mutt would have accepted their fate and desecrated the sacred linoleum, but not Daisy. To her, the obvious answer was to scale the three-foot barricade in the door, climb the living room couch to the adjacent end table where my father’s crisp, unread Boston Globe lay and exercise her paper training thereupon. How could we punisher her? She made do (absolutely no pun intended).
As any good sibling would inform you though, sisterhood is not always about the good times. Every so often, being a big sister is the last thing you want to do. Daisy often became my shadow, following me around, whining, begging for attention. She’d paw at doors I locked behind me and howl until my mother would shout, “Jeez, Kate, the damn dog wants your attention!”
“Tell her to leave me alone!” I’d snap back, fully aware that Daisy was in earshot.
I even put her on the kitchen counter to keep her out of my hair from time to time. I knew that Formica fortress was just tall enough that she wouldn’t attempt to jump off. It worked perfectly, if you ignore the time my mother found out and the fact that Daisy has been afraid of heights ever since.
Yes, there were times when I wished I didn’t have a little sister, wished that I’d remained a Singleton. I’m sure that Daisy had moments, most likely those in which I chased her with the vacuum, when she wondered what it would have been like if she had been born first. Inevitably though, some true love of seventh or eighth or whatever grade would break my heart and Daisy was there to listen. For my part, she knew she could count on me whenever she needed a break from her leash to go chase some squirrels in the yard.
Conclusion tomorrow...