Love at First Bite
Puppy love never dies no matter how old the dog. photo: AdobeStock
I was 24 and living in San Francisco when I finally got my first puppy. It was just before Christmas when my partner Rick and I picked up the runt of the litter from my friend’s Golden Retriever. We brought the little guy home in a shoe box when he was eight weeks old.
We had covered the back porch with old newspapers and introduced him to this area as his housebreaking room. I had never house trained a puppy before and was nervous about my ability to accomplish this most important goal. To my astonishment, he walked right across the sports section of the New York Times and piddled on a picture of New York Yankees manager Joe Torre. As a staunch Red Sox fan, I couldn’t have been prouder of my boy.
We all sat on the couch in the living room as I ran my hands through his soft fur. I couldn’t stop myself from kissing his forehead over and over again. I couldn’t believe he was ours. I felt like I had to get in as much love as possible right then before someone took him away. Then he wiggled as though he’d had enough smothering from me and bounced and tumbled over to Rick’s lap where the scene was repeated. Rick slipped his arm around my shoulder. I could tell he, too, was thrilled with our new pup.
Then it was time to choose a name. I didn’t have any ideas. I’d never named anything before in my life. Rick suggested Nicholas after Tsar Nicholas, the last emperor of Russia. Before he met me, Rick had been a teacher in Chicago, and during summer recesses he’d traveled to Russia three times. He even had a belt buckle with a hammer-and-sickle engraved on it, a gift from a previous boyfriend in the Russian army.
Nicholas…hmm. I would never have come up with a name like that. I’d been thinking maybe Duke after my grandparent’s dog or possibly Spike. I repeated the name as I regarded our puppy. Did he seem like a Nicholas? Like a young prince? Yes, he most certainly did. I liked it. It was noble. Plus, it was Christmas when jolly Saint Nick was in the ether.
But before the decision was made, we both took turns holding him in our arms and asking him if he liked his new name. He licked our faces and then bit our noses. We took this as an indication that he approved.
I held our four-legged prince high in the air, above our heads. He couldn’t have weighed more than 10 or 12 pounds. As our boy squirmed excitedly in my clasp, I proclaimed, “I name thee Nicholas, after Tsar Nicholas and St. Nicholas.” After which we smothered him with more hugs and smooches.
Then Rick gave me an early Christmas gift: a book about Golden Retrievers by Joan Gill, an Englishwoman who got her first Golden in 1936 and was a staunch advocate for the breed. I glanced through it as we sat watching our pup discover all the nooks and crannies in the living room. We both called out his name again and again.
From my new book I learned that the ideal for a Golden was to live in the house and that a puppy needed a box just big enough for him to lie in comfortably with some warm, soft bedding. I got a large cardboard box from the basement and cut a wide opening in one side and placed it right next to our bed. Then I folded a red cotton blanket, placed it inside for him to sleep on, and called for him to come see his new bed. Already I loved saying his name.
Nicholas slipped through the opening I’d cut for him and immediately started gnawing on the edges of the box. I was a bit worried that he might destroy it, but he soon grew tired and lay down. His head rested on the blanket and he slid quickly into the world of dreams.
From our bed I watched him sleeping. His chest rose and lowered slightly with each breath. Occasionally he’d move a paw and shift his body. Or he’d move his little head into another position. I wondered out loud whether he’d sleep through the night. When I got no reply I turned and saw that Rick had already joined him in dreamland.
Nicholas was home and it was love at first bite.