The Puppy Place

The puppy place was at the end of a long gravel drive in the middle of North Carolina farm country.  The roads were unmarked, so we ended up at the wrong house.  The woman who answered her door didn’t even pause – she said “If you’re lookin’ fer dawgs, therr jes’ back out th’ road and hang a left at the fawerk.” (“fork” for those who don’t speak North Carolina Farm Country.)  We hung a left at the fawerk and drove slowly up to an absolutely enormous pen, inside of which were hundreds of yipping dachshunds.  Hundreds of hundreds.  An old woman, moving so slow she was almost going backwards, waded her way through the sea of barking hot dawgs and came to greet us at the gate.  She smiled a slow smile, reached for the gate with an unsteady hand, and then whirled around and roared in a voice that could have started a landslide – “ENOUGH!”  Hundreds of hundreds of yipping jaws snapped shut, and they all looked at her, and us, in quivering silence.  One lone dog began to yip from his perch atop his dog house, and she screeched “BLUE!  HUSH UP NOW!”  Blue hushed up.

We were there to look at corgis, not dachsunds, because my darling husband has suddenly decided that a corgi is the dog for him.  I’m ok with a shelter mutt, but the Professor says if he’s to suffer the indignity of sharing his house with a shedding slobbering dog, it will at least be a dog that makes him laugh because of its similarity to a shuffling snuffling foot stool.  And indeed, when we cast our eyes on a couple of one-year old corgis that the woman has penned up for us to see, the Professor’s eyes are watering from the pent up laughter.  I have never seen a man giggle so hard as this one does in the face of a short-legged dog.

We saw some newborn puppies, some one-year-olds, and some two-year-olds, as well as about a thousand yipping dachshunds.  One little dachshund puppy got hold of my skirt and started tugging at it, and if there is anything cuter than a 2 pound black ball made of ears and feet trying to be vicious to a mouthful of linen then I don’t know what it is.  We liked what we saw.  Though there were more dogs on this farm than I ever dreamed could be in one place, I did not see a smidge of puppy poop anywhere.  They each had their own cage in an air conditioned shed to sleep in, and during the day they ran free on the farm, in a pen large enough for a herd of cattle.  The slow-moving woman with the impressive lungs knew each of their names, their birthdates, their parents, and fed them each treats as we walked by.  They were all clean and healthy looking, and had plenty of room (though they appeared to prefer to walk in tight packs, like schools of fish or something).  They also appeared to understand English, because each command that the old woman roared at them, they obeyed instantly, whether it was the Hush Up or to Get Away From the Nice People.  It was pretty astonishing.

I would only go to a puppy farm with my husband.  You would not catch me in an animal shelter, pet store, or breeder’s place by myself, because I would walk in a free woman and walk out AT LEAST one puppy deep, and perhaps in deeper than that.  The Professor, being that he has a heart of stone, would be absolutely incapable of walking out of ANY store with a purchase after his first visit (except maybe a grocery).  I’ve seen him take 2 months to decide on a pair of shoes.  There was no question of us walking out of there that day with a dog.  He got some info, though, and has started haggling a price, which is one reason I keep him around – a heart of stone comes in handy when you’re arguing someone down on a price for something.  My house?  My car?  My salary?  I get so emotionally wrapped up in these things.  The Professor?  No emotion at the bargaining table.  He has walked away from things we were desperate to have, cool as a cucumber, and waited for a phone call – and as a result gotten them for less than the price he originally offered.  It’s a nice trait to have in a husband when oneself is a doormat.

So, we’re looking, haggling, considering.  Our upcoming year looks a little less frantic – only two more weddings on the immediate horizon – and Muffaletta (I don’t know why I started calling my cat that, but I do) needs a little brother.  The Professor’s already picked a name, and this is something that is not under debate.  Someday, probably soon, I’ll be able to introduce you all to Virgil.  But not this week!