Let Freedom Ring

During the last three months, we've celebrated three birthdays in our house. Both kids aged up, which means I now have an 8-year-old daughter and a 10-year-old son (or as LJ puts it, he's a "ten-ager").

The third birthday belonged to none other than the Newfus, who managed to somehow make it through an entire year without ingesting something fatal or running into traffic on I-40.

It's hard to believe that it's been more than 365 days since God smote Earth - and in particular my house - with this beast.

Each of these birthday milestones has been cause for reflection, as my kids seem to mature a little and yearn for a bit more freedom each and every day. Julianna, for example, recently decided to move into the guest room so she could have her own bathroom. After the move, she promptly hung a bell on her doorknob and taped a sign to the door that said "Please ring bell to enter."

I forgot to ring once and was immediately admonished.

LJ has also been spreading his wings. He doesn't want me scrutinizing his homework or badgering him to get it done. He'd just as soon ride his bike around the neighborhood alone than wait for me and Indy to catch up. And just yesterday, when his sister asked him to play stuffed animals with her, he said, "You know, Juli, I'm getting older and I'm just not into that kind of thing anymore."

But as I struggle to accept my children's rapid ascent toward adolescence, I find I have the opposite problem with the Newf.

Desperately wanting Indy to have a little more of his own freedom, we decided to start leaving him out of his crate during the day for a few minutes at a time. After all, as a giant breed dog at 1 year old, that loosely translates into 15 human years. Surely it was time.

Indy's first few whiffs of freedom went very well. No damage was done ... unless you count that one time he bulled through the office door, dragged an extension cord out of a box and shredded it.

But we all know that cord was asking for it. 

So we continued with our doomed experiment. After he spent several successful nights and a half dozen incident-free stints during the day out of his crate, we decided to go for it. A half a day ... alone. With the run of the downstairs.

As I entered the house that evening, I breathed a sigh of relief. There was a gnarled piece of paper on the area rug, but other than that, everything seemed to be in order.

I found Indy stretched out in the dining room near his open crate and I stooped to praise him for his goodness.

It was a miracle! We had turned the corner! There was hope for this furry monster! There was a light at the end of the tunnel! There was ...

A foot missing from the leg of my dining room table.

Once the initial shock of my discovery wore off,  I gathered myself and shrugged. After all, it wasn't really Indy's fault that we put him in a situation he wasn't ready to handle. He just wasn't quite ready for prime time, and we pushed him to his breaking point. A point that included a hearty diet of very expensive cherry-stained wood veneer.

And just in case I needed a reminder, the Newf provided one I won't soon forget ... especially as it applies to highly destructive yet utterly lovable puppies.

Freedom isn't free.

Food for Thought

On the list ranking dogs by intelligence (yes there is such a list), Newfoundlands come in at a paltry #34.

To put this in perspective, they rank just above something named a Clumber, and slightly below something called a Bouvier Des Flandres.

To be honest, I'm not thrilled about my puppy ranking beneath some breed that sounds like a French porn star. But I also can't really argue that Indy's been unfairly rated or even the least bit misunderstood.

It's nearly impossible to defend the intelligence of a creature who sucks up anything in its path like an industrial-strength Shop-Vac.

When Indy ate the doormat on our deck, dozens of rolls of toilet tissue, and the daily paper, we chalked it up to puppy play.

We he consumed an extra-large box of candied sour trout, a gherkin pickle, a warehouse-sized log of goat cheese, and 17 chili peppers, an unripe tomato and several overgrown cucumbers from our backyard garden, we figured it was a canine culinary oddity. 

When he scavenged our windowsills licking up dead flies, combed the neighborhood streets for dried earthworms and goose poop, and devoured a common toad he caught outside, we thought it was just his Newfie instincts at work.

When he snatched my retainer from the bathroom counter and gently gnawed it to a warped and unusable mess, we assumed he had a thing for plastic (how else to explain the half dozen or so fang-marked cups we've found lodged beneath our sofa).

When he shattered a glass lantern on the deck and then proceeded to chew the broken shards ... well, we knew he was just stupid.

(And I haven't even discussed the video game, pillows, pairs of scissors, kitchen utensils, pencils, stickers, toothbrushes, 2 porcelain bowls, stuffed animals, winter boots, remote control, 3 fuzzy blankets, pet frog, Christmas tree light strands, action figures, flower pots, garden hose, kitchen timer, patio table, gingerbread house, matches, dreidel, and ADHD medication that all have served as bedtime snacks).

It may be divine intervention. Could be survival of the fittest. Or perhaps it's just dumb luck. But to date, Newfus has managed to eat all of this without harming himself.

A couple of weeks ago, just after Jack returned from a winning trip to Las Vegas, Indy swiped his wallet off the counter. I caught the Newf on the area rug, money scattered, Visa card in his muzzle.

There may never be a more apropos metaphor for a Newf -- or a more disturbing epiphany for his owners -- than to find him eating your credit cards straight out of the wallet. 

Touche, Indy.

This past week, Indy ushered in a new era of puppy consumables. Unsatisfied by his previous conquests, the Newf stalked our downstairs in search of flashier, more expensive household items to destroy.

Indy didn't need to look far. He found glory in the form of two digital devices -- my new iPhone and a cordless handset lying on the kitchen table that was just taunting him ... begging him to taste it.

Fortunately Apple's trademark bumper -- which Indy mangled -- kept him from doing any major damage to my iPhone (prevents antenna problems AND thwarts Newf attacks)!

But our cordless phone was not so lucky.

Our irritation and frustration quickly turned to concern when we realized that he had punctured one of the phone batteries and was therefore at risk of ingesting battery acid.

As all good pet owners do, we immediately consulted a trusted Newfoundland expert ... Google.

Here's what we found:

"If battery fluid has been ingested ... The dog will generally drool heavily."

Glancing at Indy -- standing by the water dish with streams of saliva pouring from his jowls -- we were dismayed.

And confused.

Newfs may not rate particularly high on the intelligence scale, but if there is one thing at which they are unrivaled, it is their slobber.

Another Google search instantly set our minds at ease.

"Male Newfs may be hardheaded, and they also pant a lot, drink a lot (sometimes dunking half of their head into their water bucket), and are champion droolers."

With Google knowledge coming to the rescue once again, relief set in.

The acid disaster had been averted, and we knew that Indy -- while maybe not the smartest dog -- was going to be just fine.

Well ... at least until we plant next year's watermelon crop.

Life is a Highway

It was an out of body experience. Or maybe it was in slow motion. Or it could have just been that time seemed to stand still.

Apply any cliche you want to, but it was certainly not your ordinary rest stop.

On our way back from the Woolly Worm Festival in Banner Elk last weekend, we had to pull off of I-40 near Winston-Salem. Some luggage in the back of our SUV had slipped and was crowding Julianna, so we exited the interstate and edged onto the right side of the shoulder about 50 yards from the highway.

Jack opened the tailgate and, just a few moments later, I heard him scream, "Indy, NO!"

Indy must have mistaken "NO" for "GO" because I jumped out of the car just in time to see him shoot straight down the exit ramp like a 100-lb black, furry bat out of hell.

With Indy hurtling at full speed toward his certain demise, a car headed up our exit ramp. Jack waved his arms frantically and the car slowed to a stop, but Indy was not to be denied his date with destiny. Making a sharp right, Indy headed off the exit ramp and across the median directly for the highway.

There was really nothing Jack and I could do but stand helplessly and call his name. This was puppy play, and the "come" command was falling on deaf ears as he bounded closer and closer to I-40.

But he's just a puppy, you say? Surely you could have caught him, you say? How fast can an oversized 8-month old bear be, you say?

Now I do realize that Newfs are not known for their grace or their speed. But for those who believe that giant breed dogs can't move fast, I offer you Indy.

No, really, I offer you Indy. He's already house-trained and I'll even throw in a bag of dog food for free.

My mom calls Indy the fastest dog she's ever seen. Of course, that assessment is based on the time he tore away from her grip to run down a motorcycle in our neighborhood.

Indy may not actually be THE fastest dog ever, but he was certainly fleet-footed enough to escape our middle-aged, out-of-shape efforts. So, clinging to hope alone (and with Newfie fur and slobber clinging to me), I yelled:

"OVER HERE, INDY!"

He immediately stopped, turned and started racing back toward me.

Knowing that I only had one shot to wrangle this steer, I crouched into sumo position and decided I was going for it.

This was my goal line stand. My now or never. My one shining moment.

This was my chance to tackle the Newf.

What came next is a bit of a blur.

There was a collision, a cloud of gravel dust, and a splatter of drool flying through the air.

Then Jack swooped in to latch leash to collar. The near nightmare was over and the lone casualty was a small cut on my knee.

I can only imagine what this whole episode looked like to those watching from their cars. And I do wonder if any 911 calls were placed from drivers on I-40 who reported seeing a miniature black bear attacking a woman on the side of the road.

As we walked an out-of-breath Indy back to our SUV, the driver of the first car that had stopped to avoid hitting him on the exit ramp gave us the "thumbs up" sign and then continued on.

But the next car in line stopped and the driver rolled down her window.

"Everyone okay?" she asked, as she peered from under her sunglasses.

I nodded, smiled, and said, "Yes, thanks."

She just shook her head, pushed her sunglasses back into place, rolled up the window and drove away muttering one four-letter word ...

"Newf."

Independence Day

I didn't hear my phone ring, nor did I hear the buzz of the text message. But when I realized there were two messages from home awaiting me, I knew it couldn't be good news ... and it wasn't.

LJ's consolation prize

Hoppy II, the replacement for LJ's African dwarf frog that died two weeks ago at the paws of Indy, had also, well ... croaked.

The text message also said that LJ wanted to talk to me, so even though it was well past his bedtime, I left my co-workers at the dinner table to call home.

After few words of reassurance and a promise to bring home something special from my business trip, LJ was fine.

Nearly 1,000 miles away from home, and I couldn't be there to hug LJ, wipe his tears, or tell him there would be many more amphibians in his future. It made me feel sad -- even a bit guilty -- that I couldn't be there to console him when he needed me most.

But, there was another twinge ... some other feeling lurking beneath the surface. It sounds callous, I know, but I felt just the slightest pang of happiness. Not that the frog died, of course. But it felt good that I was needed. LJ needed me to call home. He needed to talk to me.

Fast forward a few days and I was in my bathroom at home helping Julianna get ready for the day.

As I started to brush some tangles out of her hair, she immediately grabbed the brush and admonished me.


"No, I don't need any help with that. I am trying to be INDEPENDENT!"

If my coffee hadn't already kicked in that morning, then the tongue-lashing from my 7-year-old little girl did the trick.

There's nothing like a daughter's verbal rebuff to remind you who is really the queen of the castle. And it stung.

Seriously? Independent?

Is this the same girl who insists someone always be upstairs with her because skeletons might jump out of the closet? Is this the same girl who thinks it's impossible to spread the peanut butter on her own crackers? Is this the same girl who sleeps ensconced in a hot pink Snuggie and a pile of stuffed animals?

Yes, this girl is one and the same.

UFC

This girl -- my "baby" -- doesn't need me like she used to ... doesn't want me to do her hair ... calls me "Mom" instead of "Mommy" ... is embarrassed to hold my hand in public ... thinks Barbie dolls are too babyish ... reads the OpEd section in the Wall Street Journal each and every day ... just informed me of her new naval piercing ... and only likes watching television if Ultimate Fighting Championship matches are on.

Okay, so not ALL of those are true.

But even though it hurt for a moment, there was also another twinge ... some other feeling lurking beneath the surface. It was happiness. Or maybe pride. It was hard to quantify but most definitely there.

It was the realization that THIS was the moment that all parents strive for. We want our children to grow up to be well-adjusted, independent and self-sufficient. It starts when we wean them from a bottle to a sippy cup, and it ends when we hand them the keys to their college dorm room and remind them to call home ... every once in a while.

How paradoxical it is - the contrast between LJ and Julianna - the yin and the yang - the dead frog and the hairbrush. As parents, we want our children to take flight ... and yet, we don't want to let go.

I always swore to myself that I wouldn't be one of those ... one of those helicopter parents. The ones who need to be needed so badly that they stand smack dab in the way of their child and his or her independence.

But here I am, hovering perilously on the edge of the helipad ... just waiting to take off ... yearning to swoop in for that phone call, that hug, that need.

I know I'm not alone in this. If I look over my shoulder I'm sure to see a line a mile long of moms and dads who aren't sure which way to go. NEED vs. INDEPENDENCE.

Deciding which path to follow -- and striking the right balance -- is a daunting challenge. And it's one that all parents can empathize with -- no matter how young or old their child.

There's no right or wrong, open or shut, black or white. It's a monumental battle and it's one I may not be truly ready to face.

Now that I really think about it, you better save me a paper bag on that helicopter ... because it's gonna' be a bumpy ride.

It's Not Easy Being Green

Jack described it as a murder scene. And, in a sense, it was. If our puppy were on trial, he would have been found guilty on one count of frog-slaughter, and another of attempted ingestion.

While Jack was working in our home office on Friday morning, Indy was sniffing out some mischief -- and a snack. He found both in LJ's room, on a three-foot-tall bookshelf.


When Jack realized that Indy was nowhere in sight, he sensed trouble and ran upstairs just in time to find Indy trotting out of LJ's room with a stream of drool trailing from his jowls.


What exactly transpired we will never know for sure, but here's the evidence that was scattered across the carpet: a cracked plastic aquarium; one empty bag of frog food pellets; one bloodied puppy tooth; one dead African dwarf frog, and a second frog clinging to life. (Incidentally, I also found the shredded "How to Care for Your Frogs" brochure in the playroom. Apparently, Indy did not read the part about not eating the frogs.)

When Jack discovered the barely breathing "Croaky" struggling on his back, he scooped him up, delivered mouth to gill resucitation, refilled the busted tank, and plunged Croaky back into the water.

Sadly, "Hoppy" could not be saved despite repeated attempts with CPR and a mini-defibrillator Jack fashioned out of a AAA battery, fishing wire, and duct tape. In Jack's words: "There was nothing I could do. It looked like a trauma injury. He was kind of mangled."

Okay, so I realize I'm poking fun at the unfortunate and untimely death of my son's pet. You can report me to the SPCA if you want. But honestly, the whole situation is just ridiculous.

And although I may have found the circumstances regarding Hoppy's demise a bit laughable, the mere thought of telling LJ about his beloved, deceased Hoppy was not funny at all.

We decided to help ease the pain by buying another frog before LJ even knew about the incident. We knew we would have to tell him the truth, but we thought "Hoppy II" would help soften the blow just a little. Besides, we are not convinced that Croaky is going to make it. His rear leg sustained some sort of contact injury, so it remains to be seen whether Indy's great amphibian adventure will yield yet another victim.

I worried all day about how LJ would react. He still tears up when he talks about our beta fish, Max, who went to the great toilet in the sky nearly 6 years ago.

Losing a pet is never easy, no matter how small, or how slimy.

When LJ got home from camp, he noticed the frog's tank sitting in the kitchen and he knew something was up. We immediately, and as gently as possible, delivered the news that Hoppy had perished in an unfortunate act of doggy terror.

I'm not exactly sure how I expected LJ to respond, but it certainly didn't play out anywhere close to how I had anticipated it would.

It took all of us days -- weeks even -- to start healing from Viking's death in May. And I know that kids are resilient and this was "just" a frog, but still ...

Tonight, LJ instantly spiraled into the "5 stages of grief."

And he was finished with all 5 stages before you could even sing the first verse to "Froggy Went a Courtin".

8:24 p.m. - DENIAL - "He's not dead. He's right there! See him? I see two frogs!"

8:25 p.m. - ANGER - "Indy, I hate you!"

8:28 p.m. - BARGAINING - "Dad, how do you know he was dead? Maybe he was still breathing? What did you do with him?"

8:33 p.m. - DEPRESSION - Tears. Lots of them. Hugs. Lots of them. "Now I've lost three pets." More tears. More hugs.

And amazingly, at approximately 9:07 p.m., just 43 minutes after we'd delivered news that Hoppy had croaked, LJ entered the 5th and final stage of grief ... ACCEPTANCE.

"Dad, so if Croaky DOES survive his leg injury, can I get a third frog anyway? And a new tank? I really need a new, bigger tank."

Acceptance. And most important, resiliency.


This is a beautiful thing about children.

Each and every day we ask our children to face new challenges and not be afraid to fail. When they do fail, we implore them to try again.

And they do.

It happens in school, it happens in sports, it happens with their friends, and yes, it happens with pets.

Our children fall down, slap a band-aid on it, and move on.

They are the essence of resiliency.

There are two lessons to be learned in this whole frog debacle (besides, of course, keeping your aquatic pets out of your Newf's reach).

#1
 
"It's not easy being green." -- Kermit the Frog

#2
 

"Man never made any material as resilient as the human spirit. " -- Bern Williams


Amen to that. And may Hoppy's soul rest in peace.