Puppy Journals: what's wrong with your dog?

It turns out our white-knuckle fear that we were doing everything wrong in the first few weeks of puppy ownership may have paid off. When Omar couldn't go outside yet because he wasn't vaccinated, we made it a point to have as many of our friends over as possible to get him used to people. We enrolled him in a puppy class ASAP so he could socialize with dogs in a safe setting. And now, when I walk him, often to my chagrin, he walks directly up to strange people and dogs and sits, shivering with anticipation for the undoubted shower of love that's about to be poured on him. More often than not his expectations are met.

There are those times, however, when they're not. I understand that not everyone loves dogs*. I understand that many dogs were rescues, and may not have the best background. But I have a hard time believing that that could account for the number of dogs who get pulled away from Omar because they don't know how to behave. The best way an owner can handle this is to look at me shamefacedly and say "sorry, she doesn't do very well with other dogs." Good. You should feel ashamed. That's like going to Applebee's with your screaming, tantrum-throwing feral child, looking at the table next to you and saying "sorry, I didn't do a very good job of this." Own it. And thank you for at least vocalizing it.

But you also get other owners, like the Jabba-esque woman this morning** who herded her dog into a corner while eyeballing Omar with fear and wagging her finger at me. Not good enough. I suppose the equivalent would be bringing that same feral child to Applebee's, then giving nasty looks to the well-behaved children next to you looking at your poo-flinging progeny in abject horror.

Colin Fisher is many things to many people, but mostly he's an actor and writer.

*Like the psychic across 9th Avenue who sits at the curb in the evening, asking passers-by if they want a reading. Sitting makes you an Omar magnet, so of course when we walked by once he went right up to her feet and stared at her, waiting for adoration. She curled into a ball and said she really doesn't like dogs and please take him away. I apologized and moved along. It wasn't until later that I realized I should have said "I don't like charlatans and liars, and you should have seen us coming. Deal with it."

**Think Rubenesque, but with more slime and a Kowakian monkey-lizard on her shoulder. You know, Salacious Crumb. Sigh. The cackly thing that hung out with Jabba.

Puppy Journals: Day huh?

Some of you have been wondering where my updates have been, and how things have been progressing with Omar. So here's the deal with the dog: it's all sort of normal now. He gets up when we get up, sleeps on the couch with us while we watch TV, enjoys a couple of good long walks every day. We just have this dog now. He's part of the family. Our routines have meshed together to form a new routine. He still has his accidents, but the one today broke a six-day streak. He still drops energy bombs on us once or twice a day by literally bouncing off one end of the couch into another, or one wall of the apartment into another, but we indulge him, and laugh, and then he sleeps. And farts. That hasn't changed.

We're part of the neighborhood now, us and Omar. I know the dog walkers, and the other Frenchie owners, and these two awesome English bulldogs named Grover and Bacon. Some of Grover's dried drool is on the knee of my jeans as I write this. Omar knows the hostess of the restaurant at the corner, and people walk by and say "oh, I saw his picture." Michael Emerson smiled at him the other day. I've become delusional enough to think that Omar will be the final nudge that pushes me into the domain of real, working actors. The scenario that plays out most often in my head involves standing on a corner while Omar plays with another Frenchie, chatting with the owner. It casually comes up that I'm an actor, and wouldn't you know it, the other owner is an agent/producer/casting director/et al. I will be legally bound to give 10% of my earnings to Omar. We should set up a college fund.

There are still quizzical moments. Why doesn't he eat as voraciously as he used to? Why, when he does decide to eat, does he take one piece of food and sprint to his bed to eat it, then run back and repeat the process? And oh god, if his farts still smell like this on a no-grain food, is there any solution? Note: google "fartectomy" after this and see what I find.

Colin Fisher is many things to many people, but mostly he's an actor and writer.

Puppy Journals: Day 8 (Puppy Class!)

Yesterday, Omar got to walk on the ground outside for the first time. He got his final round of shots last week, and the vet said he'd be good to go and mingle by the end of the weekend. On Friday we signed him up for a six-week puppy training class that started yesterday, which was my only contribution to Black Friday. I'm sad to have contributed anything, but come on, it was $20 less.

Now begins the long process of teaching him that the awesome thing he's been doing on a pee pad 90% of the time is now something that needs to happen in a loud, strange, distracting, kind of cold environment. Yay!

Class went very well. We were worried he would be the only puppy, but two other dogs had signed up too. One was a big standard poodle puppy, and the other was a shiba inu. A big part of these classes is just socialization. Your dog needs to meet other dogs in controlled environments so he can learn how to behave around them. According to the trainer, throwing them into a dog park as soon as they're out of quarantine is not the best idea.

I have to admit I was nervous. What if that dog manual I'd been reading was, in fact, correct, and I'd ruined our puppy for all eternity? What if he was too stupid to learn the things we were going to teach him? What if WE were too stupid? What if he was the unruly kid in class, and we got kicked out because it was just easier without him?

Also, as a long-time cat owner, my assumption is that any time I take a pet outside he will immediately bolt away from me, never to be seen again.

All my fears were groundless. The dogs were excited to see each other, and Omar was able to figure out the three basic things we worked on. We've already had good success with sit, and her technique wasn't too different. We also started an exercise that will eventually teach him his name, and that when I say it he needs to pay attention. For now though, it just consists of showing him I have treats in my hands, holding them out to the sides, and rewarding him when he makes eye contact with me. The final thing was getting him to come to me. That took a little more work. Again, all you do is show him you have treats, then walk backwards and say "Omar, come!" When he does, give him a treat and say "Good!" Our dog is laconic, to say the least. When he did come, he'd take a few slow steps, sit, and think about things. The trainer gave us a toy to use as motivation instead, and that worked for a few rounds, but then he slowed his roll again. I looked at the other two dogs sprinting across the store to their owners with just a pang of jealousy, but it's OK. We wanted a chill dog, and boy did we get one.

They got one good period of play time in the middle of class. Omar and the shiba played together first, then the poodle was introduced since he's so much bigger. The shiba was shy, but Omar knew this game thanks to Tommy. He kept trying to engage the shiba by popping up on his hind legs and pawing at him. The shiba mostly wanted to hang out by her owners. She slowly came around, then the poodle game in and all bets were off. He and the shiba started rolling all over each other, and Omar was doing his best to jump into the game. It was hard not to jump in when it looked like it was getting rough, but the trainer knew what she was doing and it turns out, so did the dogs. Having only compared him to Tommy though, I now realize Omar is a tiny, tiny little dog.

This morning was the first of our new routine. Where Amy and I both got up at 7:30, her to get ready for work and me to squeeze all the pee and poop out of our dog that I could onto a pee pad, now we're getting up so I can take him outside and squeeze that stuff out there. No success yet, but I am meeting my neighbors finally. They will all come to know me as that sleepy guy in pajamas with the adorable dog, who introduced himself as "Omar, let's go potty!"

Colin Fisher is many things to many people, but mostly he's an actor and writer.

Puppy Journals: Day 7

Tonight we discovered that around 9 PM, Omar turns into a demonic bunny hell-bent on expending so much energy that our apartment spontaneously combusts. We were all on the couch, and he was seemingly getting relaxed in his own way. This typically consists of Omar throwing himself into various positions against the couch cushions, sliding along them, and grunting. He'll relax for a minute or two, then throw himself into another position until he finally falls asleep.

But not tonight. He began throwing himself more frequently, and finally did some sort of inverted twist while uttering a squawking yelp that I can only describe as the battle-cry of the damned. This kicked off a round of couch windsprints, wherein he charged back and forth between me and the end of the couch, running full-force into the cushions there. He tucked those bat-ears back and worked his back legs in such a way as to resemble said demon rabbit. Our initial surprise turned into amusement turned into oh god he's going to break himself.

We set him on the floor to pre-empt his falling off. Once there, he drew a pentagram and called forth dark shapes to aid his freak-out. It was weird.

Colin Fisher is many things to many people, but mostly he's just an actor and writer.

Puppy Journals: Day 6

That picture there? That is the face of a falling separation anxiety bomb. I'm reading about how to prevent this from happening while my puppy lays in my lap for three straight hours, which I take as a good indicator that we would both make awesome codependent spouses.

A big reason dogs freak out when you leave them alone is that you never taught them to be independent as puppies. So as I wait for his playpen to get delivered, I have to try crating him while I'm home so he doesn't have "unlimited access" to me. But—LOOK AT THAT FACE. How do you not grant said access to a face like that? We've clearly spent thousands of years evolving into this sick dance together. He knows what he's doing.

One key way to stop him from holding his breath until you come back home is to play it real cool when you do get back. Now I come in, set my stuff down, walk through the bedroom and turn on the computer. I'll look at him out of the corner of my eye. He's in his crate, watching me quietly. We're both pretending that we're not dying to run circles around each other. It's cool.

I need to set up my webcam to run the next time I leave the house for a few hours, but I'm scared of what I'll find. My chief concern is that he's howling and barking while I'm gone, but really it could be worse. What if he's running some sort of illegal poker/cockfighting/gladiator ring while I'm gone? It could happen.

In other news, dear lord how much pee can one dog hold?

Colin Fisher is a lot of things to a lot of people, but mostly he's just an actor and writer.

Puppy Journals: Day 5

The keyword today has been chewing. Our apartment is too small to really warrant a playpen for the dog, but just too big for me to be by his side without a constant effort. As such, I'm forced to follow him around the apartment, constantly nudging him aside or offering one of his MANY viable chew-objects when he starts chewing something else. The wall. A door. The magazine basket. The corner of the couch. These are all amazing shapes to be fully explored. You cannot know a thing til you've flaked off little pieces of that thing into your mouth. That's Voltaire, right?

We have this bitter apple spray we're supposed to use on things we don't want him chewing. Honestly I think the only way to effectively use it would be Ghostbusters 2-style, when they hose the inside of the Statue of Liberty with pink slime. I can't imagine our cat Tommy would be thrilled with that. Even he gets chewed from time to time.

We must buy him more chew toys. The apartment must be thick with chew toys to keep him from chewing non-chew-toy things. He requires a nonstop stream of floppy, rubbery, squeaky, food-filled gadgets to keep him occupied. I'm in the process of patenting a revolutionary design in which an entire apartment, both structure and furnishings, is just chew toy.

I have now said "Omar no" more in my life than my own name.

Colin Fisher is a lot of things to a lot of people, but mostly he's just an actor and writer.

Puppy Journals: Day 4

Omar is sleeping consistently through the night in his crate. We have set our alarms for four hours after we go to sleep, so we can get up, put him on the pads, cheer like idiots and then crate him and sleep for another four hours. We have the precision of a German special forces unit.

Today was Omar's first vet visit (with us, anyway—he's almost done with the battery of shots dogs need before they can freely mount each other with useless genitalia). He did very well. I'm looking forward to delivering the stool sample they'll need. I have a small clear plastic tube with a white spoon in it with which to do the deed. My plan is to walk down Ninth Avenue with it held at arm's length, screaming.

Last night's meltdown was revelatory. If he enjoys the crate enough to sleep in it, why push it? I'll get him to pee on the pads without confining him hourly. He's already getting there. A couple of times today he walked right over to them and peed without my prompting, though he certainly got a healthy reward when he was finished. I may be too eager though. If someone ran into the bathroom while I was in midstream and shouted "GOOD JOB COLIN! SUCH A GOOD JOB!" I'd probably clam up too. However, I cannot explain the pride I feel when he does what's expected of him without my asking. I know just how Michael Phelps' mom felt in '08.

Colin Fisher is a lot of things to a lot of people, but mostly he's just an actor and writer.

Puppy Journals: Day 3

Well, we've been going about this all wrong. I read a for-real guide this morning and if he's 12 weeks old, we're about four weeks late to the game. He needs to socialize with at least 100 people! He needs to be able to sit at the mere flick of my wrist! He should land an F-16 on the deck of a carrier in choppy seas!

First things first: the crate. Apparently I'm supposed to keep him in there for hour shifts, and bring him out to eliminate at the desired spot. I use the time after to constructively play with him by teaching him to sit and come and how Napoleon shouldn't have invaded Russia, then put him in the crate for another hour shift so I can control where he eliminates. Fun and love clearly have no place in dog ownership.

But wait—I thought keeping a dog in the crate all day made him neurotic? And won't the whole housebreaking thing go a lot better once he's fully vaccinated and I can set him down outside? And if he doesn't get into the right preschool, can he still get into Yale?

I believe my dog thinks his name is "Omar let's go potty," and that I am a strange man who lives in the corner surrounded by pee pads.

Tonight was bad. After systematically crating and uncrating him all day, and occasionally getting to reward him for peeing in the right spot, he peed in his crate. The whole purpose of the training is to keep him in a den-like area where he definitely won't eliminate, so we can show him where we do want him to go. If he violates that principle, the whole ordeal today was for nothing. We melted down. We saw our future, and it was Amy and I at 70, standing deranged over a confused 40-year old puppy croaking "go potty! go potty! go potty!" Sensing our weakening grip on reality, Omar came to the corner where we were huddled, rocking each other, and climbed all over us.

We'll keep him. For now.

Colin Fisher is a lot of things to a lot of people, but mostly he's just an actor and writer.

Puppy Journals: Day 2

Last night wasn't quite as bad as we thought it would be. Given the setup of our apartment, we were forced to accelerate the crate process and have Omar sleep in it. He'd seemed pretty comfortable with it through the day. We kept it next to the bed so he'd feel close to us. I guess it wasn't quite close enough though, because once we all settled in he started whimpering. I read the material. I knew what to do. "Omar, settle," I said in a gently commanding voice, while giving him a reassuring nudge through the crate. That's all they said you needed to do to get him to quit.

He didn't quit.

He got progressively louder. His whimpers turned into weird, strangled howls. Frenchies are not known for resounding barks, which is one of the many things that makes them great apartment dogs. But I learned last night they are known for warbling, glass-rattling howls. Slightly less than my desire for him to stop so I could sleep, was my desire for him to stop so the neighbors wouldn't hear him.

Amy got on the floor to settle him, and it worked. She got back into the bed, and in came the grunts and whines. She got back down, stayed longer, then came back. Again, the sounds of a puppy slowly being disemboweled. This time she brought her pillow and laid down a while.

This went on until 8 AM.

While our puppy certainly fell below expectations his first night, my certainty of his savant status has not diminished. Based on the brief reading I'd done before getting him, I was expecting worse. I don't know from where these dogs the authors spoke of came, but I have to assume they would all recognize Michael Vick on sight. We spent the day cradling him while he looked lovingly in our faces, playing with him with all the toys we bought him, watching him pee in every room of our small apartment, and marveling at the amount of odor that can fly off of one small dog turd.

Colin Fisher is a lot of things to a lot of people, but mostly he's just an actor and writer.

Puppy Journals: Day 1

We spent last night in MA, four hours from home, so we could pick up the newest addition to our family this morning. We've been obsessing over French Bulldogs for at least five years now, and last weekend we decided to make the jump. Within hours we were in touch with a breeder, and the next day we Skyped with a puppy. Five puppies, actually. They were docile, sweet-faced animals who simply sat and watched their owner scoot her laptop around on the floor so we could see them. They weren't jumpy. They weren't shy. They were perfect.

Meteorology is not perfect. After a late start and a long visit at the breeder's house, surrounded by snorting, grunting, happy Frenchies, it was time to hit the road and get our rental back before its 3 PM deadline. We had about 30 minutes of wiggle room in our timeline, and we knew the living-evidence-of-climate-change-late-October-freak-nor'easter wasn't going to blow in until the evening, so we felt OK. A little worried, but OK. Amy sat in the back of our odd little Nissan Cube (seriously Japan?) and held Omar in her lap.

As it happens, that nor'easter blew in about four hours early and ten inches heavier than expected, and our lovely country jaunt through New England turned into a nightmare race against time and the elements to get this stupid purple box on wheels back to Budget in time. I was constantly doing math. "At this rate, for a few hours, I'll be x minutes faster than Google Map's estimate. We're in good shape." Our wheels skated along the slowly building slush. Semis would splash by, wiping out my visibility for a sphincter-wrenching three seconds. But all I had to do was turn back and see Omar's face, serenely looking back as if to say "you got this, strange man who I now love with all my being."

We hit the last traffic jam just outside Manhattan at 2:53. I knew we were done for. But this puppy hadn't made a sound all day. He was perfect. We parked the car and ate the charges for a second day, and spent the rest of the day with our dog. He spent his time flinging himself from one lap to another to the corner of the couch. Sure, he peed on the floor a few times, and sure, when we tried taking him outside he just shivered in the LATE OCTOBER SNOW and looked at us as if to ask, "What did I do wrong?" But he never whined. He never barked. He never chewed anything.

We read the books. We knew the problems ahead. But clearly, we had chosen wisely, because our puppy is in no uncertain terms a genius.

Colin Fisher is a lot of things to a lot of people, but mostly he's just an actor and writer.