Once upon a time, there was a girl who wanted a dog very, very badly. Even though she was 32 years old, she begged and begged her Mom to let her have a puppy, but her Mom said, “No. We’ve had dogs for the last 21 years and I’m tired of taking care of them.”

“But, Mom,” the girl cried, “I’d take care of her myself! She’d be your, your . . . grandpuppy! And we could name her Katama, like the beach on Martha’s Vineyard (you know how you love anything from Martha’s Vineyard), but we could call her Katy.”

It took months, but Mom finally weakened, only insisting that the dog not be a miniature dachshund, like they’d had before. “No dog,” she’d been saying for months, “But absolutely not a dachshund.” So the girl took the second part for truth and started to look for another dog breed to love. Some were too big; some were too small. Some were too active; some were too sickly. Some were too cutesy; some were too ugly. She despaired of ever finding the perfect breed. Then one day, while scrolling through a list of dog breeds, like magic, there was one that had her name on it. A Boykin Spaniel. It was perfect. Medium-sized, smart, friendly, active but not too active–and even curly brown hair, just like her own. After that, she knew she’d won her Mom over and now it was just a matter of finding the perfect dog.

First, she looked for a rescue dog, figuring that a dog that needed a new home as much as she needed a dog would be just the right match. But that didn’t work–there is only one Boykin Spaniel rescue organization in the country, and there was never a dog of the right age or the right personality at the right time for the girl’s needs. So, she decided to start looking for a puppy. This was harder because so many Boykins come from the south and our girl lived in New Jersey, but one day in September, she called the Boykin Spaniel Society to ask if they knew of any litters that were available. They listed five, and one one of them, the girl’s hair stood up–a litter of girl puppies from Madison, NC. That was the one!

She called the breeder–the very first person to ask about one of Summer’s puppies–and they arranged that she would get a puppy–the best, picked out by him–who would be (gulp) flown up to NJ as soon as she was old enough. Say, October 29th, when the puppies are exactly 7 weeks old. Excited, the girl bought and read dozens of books on dogs, puppies, clicker training, and then she bought things like chew toys and crates and treats–everything her puppy would need. On October 27th, she overnighted the check to pay for her puppy and started planning her Friday–she would go to work for a few hours, have lunch at the office Halloween party, and then leave early to go to the airport to pick up her precious little bundle of fur.

But [dramatic music here] evil forces had gathered, and had prevented her check from being delivered on time! The breeder called her on Thursday night, apologetic but firm that he would not ship the puppy without having received the money. The girl understood but was distraught (an understatement, really). She tried tracking the package, calling the delivery company, even trying to find another way to get the money to the man, but no. He wouldn’t budge. After little sleep, she went to work the next day, despondent at the thought that she wouldn’t get her Katy that day after all. All her dreams of a puppy seemed far from fulfillment, just because of the evil shipping company. (Okay, maybe not evil; just misguided.)

Around lunchtime, though, things got better. Not only was there food and wacky co-workers dressed in distracting costumes, but there was word from the breeder–the check had come! Huzzah! He made plans that he would bring Katy to the local airport at 6:00 the next morning (which meant leaving his own house about 5:00–he really did feel badly about the whole thing), where she would catch a connecting flight to Charlotte, which would then fly to Newark’s Liberty Airport. The girl had paid extra for “counter to counter” delivery of her puppy (no cargo terminal for her precious ball of fur!), and so the next morning, she and her Mom–who had sworn she didn’t even want to be around when the puppy came–were at the airport luggage claim, singing the chorus to the K-K-K-Katy Stammer Song, anxiously waiting the big Arrival.

Then, a man walked by with a little, yellow carrier. Could it be? The girl and her mom followed him to the office and peered at the crate. There, huddled in the back, was a scared, little, brown puppy. The girl leaned forward and said, “Hi, Katy. Hi, Sweetie,” while her Mom melted into a big, gushy puddle behind her. After a few moments, the girl opened the crate door to reach in to pet the puppy, who licked her fingers, but wasn’t willing to come forward yet. (It had been a pretty scary morning so far, you must admit–for the first time away from her mother, she’d been on two airline flights, all alone, in a cargo hold. Pretty traumatic for a puppy only 7 weeks old.) The girl signed the paperwork, and then picked up the crate to carry it, carefully, out to the car.

Once at the car, she opened the crate door again and dragged the reluctant puppy out to be cuddled and reassured. Then there was a blinding flash of light….

On the drive home, the puppy sat very, very still, moving nothing but her head, as if she was still afraid of her new surroundings, the new people (who no doubt sounded pretty funny to her southern ears). But little by little, she started to relax. She accepted a crumb of liver biscotti. She wagged her tail. She started to squirm just a little to explore.

The girl was very happy. She had her puppy in her arms, all was right with the world. And then, they were home.

Katy.

Born September 7, 1999. Arrived October 30, 1999. Died May 7, 2001.

. . . . Don’t miss our next, exciting installment, where Katy meets the many strange people of New Jersey (ghosts! ghouls! goblins!) in “Katy’s First Halloween!” (“You were right FurMom, Yankees ARE strange!”)

Tags: Family, Katy, Jilly, Muppy by Deb
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This has really been a lovely day (another one). Perfect weather, again, about which I’m still feeling obscurely guilty. But, what can you do?

Mom and I took Chappy (aka Drool-Face) to the park today. He’s been asking to go all week. (“Park! Park! Park park park!“) Then, he was so excited to be there, he just drooled . . . and then covered himself in drool every time he shook his head.

This habit of his, I’ll tell you, came as quite a shock to me in the beginning. None of our other dogs ever drooled this much. Don’t even get me started on the amount of drool he used to emit in the car . . . he used to get carsick . . . and, well . . . rivers. But that, at least, had a reason. So does a mouth-watering reaction to food. But drool just out of sheer excitement at being at the park? Who knew? I try to carry paper towels with me for this kind of thing . . . I don’t like drooly kids (I accept that it happens, but that’s what bibs are for, and you at least try to stay on top of it), and I don’t want my dog covered with it either. Naturally, though, I always forget to actually bring the towel with me . . . it’s usually back in the car, and so Chappy happily meanders through the park, looking like, well, this.

After our lovely (if wet) walk through the park, we went to Wightman Farms for some apples.

And some pie. (They have really good home-style pies).

And, oh yeah, some doughnuts, which Mom particularly loves.

Unfortunately, it’s still a little early in the season for my favorite apples (Macouns and Honeycrisps), but I did get some Ginger Golds, so I’m happy. I love really good, really crisp apples in the fall.

And you should have seen all the pumpkins they had already. I mean it’s only September 10th. (I bet you didn’t know they grew with faces here in New Jersey.)

After Wightmans, I told Mom and Chappy I wanted to make one stop–Barnes & Noble, to see if they had Stephanie’s bookbookbook2. I looked on the shelf, and didn’t see it, but since somebody had left her a Comment about finding a copy yesterday, I asked. (Something I almost never do in bookstores, since I’m usually pretty good at finding what I need.) They had two copies in stock . . . but couldn’t find either of them. The fellow helping looked, and asked around, in case somebody had shelved them in the wrong place, but . . . nope. Nowhere to be found. I mean, if they hadn’t had the books at all yet, well, fine, but they had them in the inventory. Sheesh. So . . . no extra yarn-harlot-ness for me this weekend. Disappointing!

Now, you hear me talk about Chappy all the time. (All the time, I know.) You even hear me mention my dear, departed Katy, his predecessor.

But you rarely ever hear me talk about the dogs we had before. Partly because they were the family’s dogs, not my dogs. There were two of them, both miniature dachshunds–Muppy, who we got when I was 11, and Jilly, who lived to be almost 15 and a half. Today would have been her 21st birthday.

We got her when I was 17 and she was 8 months old, about a year after we lost Muppy. We were actually going to get a puppy, but her breeder tricked us–she let us meet Jilly first, before we ever saw the litter of puppies. (Sneaky!) By the time we made it into the next room, Jilly had worked her wiles. A good thing for her, too, since the first full day we had her, when Dad and Patty went to work and I headed off to school, my mother almost had a break down, Jilly reminded her so much of Muppy. (She really didn’t want another dog, I might add, but Dad and I ganged up on her.) I got home from school and said, “How’s the puppy??” and Mom almost burst into tears . . . she went upstairs and shut the door (rare, rare thing), and I spent the afternoon running up and down the stairs from my mother, who wanted nothing to do with the dog, and poor Jilly who was still so confused and scared and uncertain . . . it wasn’t a good day. But then, a day or so later, Mom was vacuuming and realized she didn’t know where Jilly was . . . the poor thing had been so terrified at the vacuum, she squeezed herself behind the toilet and just shook . . . Mom felt so terrible, and cuddled her to calm her down, and I think that pretty much did it. After that first week, Mom loved her as much as the rest of us did . . . it was just getting through the first week that was hard!

What can I tell you about Jilly? She was sweet and lovable, of course, but a little neurotic at times. She hated the car, because she was convinced that it would always go to the vet. She went more often than she should have–generally healthy, but periodontal disease (lots of tooth extractions). She ate baby food for almost her entire life–Cheese & Macaroni was her favorite flavor. She thought she was a little girl, or at least acted as if she did. She loved to get dressed up–if we tied a bow around her neck (as in this photo, taken on my sister’s wedding day), she’d preen with it . . . right until it started tickling her ears. She wore perfume–would roll on the carpet whenever any of us would spritz ourselves with it. She loved to flowers–never ate them, but would sniff every, single one of a bouquet. She loved dolls–we could have our dolls “pet” her and she would lean in to the pets as if they were just really small humans . . . but stuffed animals, she would treat like, well, animals. She loved tea–preferably with milk, no sugar–and I always gave her the last mouthful when I had a mug. (Her nose was perfectly shaped for reaching down to the bottom of the cup.) She did bark quite a lot, being a dachshund, but she was such a sweetie to have around. I feel guilty sometimes that I don’t think about her as much since my Boykin Spaniels have come into my life, but that doesn’t mean I love her any the less!

Anyway, in honor of Jilly, today’s links for Katrina Aid are for the pets: Noah’s Wish, ASPCA, the Humane Society.

Tags: Chappy, Family, Katy, Jilly, Muppy, Weather by Deb
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I just thought I’d mention . . . today would have been Katy’s sixth birthday.

It’s a little weird because, of course, six is such a young age for a dog, and yet she’s been gone four years . . . and so for her, it sounds old.

She’ll always be a puppy to me.

Katy
September 7, 1999 – May 12, 2001

Tags: Family, Katy, Jilly, Muppy by Deb
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Had things gone differently four years ago today, chances are the blog you’re reading would have been called “Katy’s Mom” instead of Chappy’s.

(Stop reading here if you don’t care about dogs or pets or too much sentiment; you’ll just be bored. It’s okay. Just come back tomorrow, when there’ll be knitting content again. Otherwise, brace yourself for some bittersweet nostalgia, and read on!)

That was the day–May 12, 2001–I threw her tennis ball, and it bounced off a tree (the only one in our entire yard) and into the street, right in front of a car that I didn’t see until it was too late. Katy adored chasing her ball and, when she did, focused only on that. The week before, her shoulder collided with that same tree as she chased the ball past; a month or so earlier, she went head-first, full-speed into a bush, without even a pause, just because that’s where her tennis ball went.

May I gush about her for a few minutes? She was my first dog. Not the family’s first, mind you, but mine. We got her nine months after we lost our miniature dachshund, Jilly, who we’d had since I was 17. I still joke that it was like being 12 again, trying to convince my Mommy to let me have a dog. Her name was just one of my ploys–her full name was Katama, the South Beach section of Martha’s Vineyard. (The joke was that my mother can’t say no to anything connected to M.V.)

She was born September 7, 1999, and very bravely flew up alone from North Carolina to New Jersey on her very first day away from her mother and siblings. I think she was pretty terrified about the whole experience, too, but she relaxed in my lap in the car. (That drive being the sole exception to the puppy-safely-seatbelted-in-the-back rule–that day, comfort and warmth were far more important than the risk of an accident.)

She was smart–she was the first of our dogs we ever trained to sit, lie down, etcetera. In fact, she had “sit” down cold by the third day I had her. (I tell you, clicker training is just wonderful!). She also shook hands, twirled in a circle, and curtseyed (a play bow). She went to school and thus became the first family dog with a diploma. She was also the first we ever took on vacation–to, you guessed, it Martha’s Vineyard–and she was also the first dog my sister ever welcomed into her house.

We had a lot in common–we looked rather alike, with wavy, dark brown hair–reasonably smart, funny, but we both liked things the way we like them and don’t like to be bothered when we’re trying to relax. In fact, that brings me to Mondays. Katy was a cranky little girl on Monday mornings, when I headed back to work after a weekend of togetherness. My parents still joke about how they would walk past her pillow and she would growl at them, “Leave me alone; it’s Monday.” Not in a mean way, you understand, but just as a warning (It’s Monday, don’t mess with me). I always rather loved that she had a little bit of a temper, and that she learned to control it. Which she did. When she chased that tennis ball, she hadn’t growled at anything for a month; before that, it had been three weeks. I was so darn proud of her for that! I know myself how hard it is to learn to control that.

Really, we were a lot alike!

Katy was 20-months old when I lost her. She had been acting like a nice, adult dog for about two months, like she had flicked a switch at 18-months, so I got to see what a wonderful dog she had become. Since she was practically perfect in so many ways, she timed her exit perfectly, too. She plotted a perfect collision course with that car coming up the street–the driver never had a chance to see her. Her neck was broken, and she was gone by the time I reached her (not that I was willing to admit that). No unnecessary suffering, thank God. Really. If it had to happen, she did it perfectly.

The driver couldn’t have been nicer. She drove us to the vet, where I said good-bye. The vet himself was wonderful–he trimmed off some of her fur for a keepsake and later, made me a clay imprint of her paw (something I had planned to do, but ran out of time). While I was at the vet, my next-door neighbors scrubbed the blood off the street for me so I wouldn’t have to face it when I got home. (Possibly the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me.)

I wouldn’t, of course, give Chappy up for anything in the world–you all know that. And I know that if I hadn’t lost Katy, I would never have been lucky enough to bring him home, and that’s unthinkable. But still. I do wish I had waited to throw that ball.

Katy was a wonderful dog. She had to be. If she hadn’t been so loving and smart and beautiful, I wouldn’t have Chappy. She helped show us how great having an actually trained dog could be.

So in a way, I owe Chappy to her.

She would have been an excellent big sister, too . . . just as long as he didn’t mess with her on Monday mornings.

Katy.

September 7, 1999 – May 12, 2001.

We were silly together, but we sure had fun.

Tags: Family, Katy, Jilly, Muppy by Deb
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I can’t believe it’s May 5th already. May is a red letter month in my family. My brother-in-law’s birthday is the 11th. My niece’s 16th birthday is on the 24th. My nephew’s 12th birthday is on the 20th.

Naturally, I graduated college (Drew University) in May–on the 20th, 1989–on, in fact, my niece’s due date. She very thoughtfully waited four more days before being born, and thus timed her arrival exactly halfway between my brother-in-law’s and my sister’s birthdays (June 7th). Not bad timing, considering she didn’t have access to a calendar, but then, she’s always been pretty thoughtful. And my nephew obviously thought that date sounded so nice, he used it for his own arrival. (We’re a very close family.)

May also ties in with almost all of our family dogs.

  We lost Muppy (on the left), our very first dog on May 5th, 22 years ago, when she was exactly 5 1/2 years old. (It was a rare form of anemia; nothing we could do.) Almost exactly a year later, on the day after Mother’s Day, we adopted Jilly (to the right). They were both miniature dachshunds; Muppy was a wire-haired; Jilly was smooth. Poor Muppy (whose name is short for “Mustard,” since she was a hot dog and we were kids). She was here for such a short time, and none of us had really decent cameras, so this professional shot is one of the only good pictures of her. Her fur was beautiful–she was more silver than tan, but had some of just about every possible hair color in there somewhere. It’s just such a shame she was so often sick.

Jilly had more classic dachshund coloring, and we were lucky enough to have her for a long, full life–almost 15 1/2 years! For my Boykins, I also lost Katy in May (on the 12th), four years ago . . . (Right around the time Chappy was being conceived, actually, so I suppose he’s got some connection to May, too!)

Mom and I always go on vacation together in May–have been since I was in college. In fact, in two weeks, I’ll be on Martha’s Vineyard. (Can’t wait!) We’ll have Chappy with us, too, and I’m sure a good time will be had by all. We’re timing this trip to overlap the refacing of our kitchen and bathrooms, too, so Mom and Chappy won’t be stressed by the household chaos. (My father actually volunteered to give up golf for a week, which, if you knew my father, would tell you exactly how stressed my mother would have been.)

Which reminds me, I need to find some good reading material to bring with me. Usually, I’ll have at least one, looked-forward-to book to bring along. (A relic of the days when Mom would buy one “Vacation Book,” which I wasn’t allowed to start until we were actually on vacation. Waiting to start it was agony.) This year, though . . . nothing special. I’m sure I’ll find something decent to bring along, but . . . nothing that’s got me champing at the bit.

And, we may be the only family that bothers to keep track of these things, but my half-birthday is in May. Tomorrow, in fact. Yes, I know it sounds silly. Who bothers to know when their half-birthday is? Except that, when you’re a kid, those halves are important! Four-and-a-half is much older than just plain, old four. (Everyone knows that!) We never did anything elaborate, of course, but Mom would say, “Happy Half-Birthday,” and might make a point of not making anything particularly disliked for dinner. One year, honest to goodness, she gave me half of a birthday card. (I really do come by these eccentricities honestly.)

May has Mother’s Day (U.S.) and Memorial Day, too . . . that includes a nationally-mandated 3-day weekend from work.

Really, except for the allergy thing, who could have anything against the Merry Month of May?

Oh! And I finished my shawl last night! I’ll get some pictures when I block it . . .

Tags: Family, General, Katy, Jilly, Muppy by Deb
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