It's hard to think about gardening at this time of year, so I'd like to spend today telling you about my new puppy. It's a long tale that starts out pretty grimly, so bear with me. Shortly after Hank died I went up to feed the sheep and found one of our four ewes dead, and a lamb all chewed up and near death. The previous winter we'd lost our donkey, who kept the coyotes away, so I suppose we'd been lucky to escape a coyote invasion before now.
George Ford was haying in the long lot and kindly dispatched the lamb and took both dead critters away. That night I locked the flock in the barn, worrying not just about coyotes but about which lambs didn't have a nursing mother and which mother was getting miserable without a lamb to nurse.
The next afternoon there was another lamb down, and before the week was out another one was down. When George came to take the last one away he informed me that that day he had seen Rumple baiting and then attacking the lambs. So it wasn't coyotes devastating the flock, it was my dog!
Remember Rumple? I loved this sweet, pathetic dog, her face all scarred up from trying to survive on the streets of Puerto Rico as a pup. She and Clover were best buddies, and to my knowledge, she'd never even looked at a sheep before Hank died. I knew I'd never trust her again, but couldn't face putting her to sleep, so I tied her up each morning when I let the sheep out, and untied her each night when she and Clover would race off into the fields to play like children just let out of school.
By the end of June I couldn't stand this solution any more and made Rumple a long leash attached at the end to a plastic sled so she couldn't get through the pasture fences. She hated it, but it allowed her to be free. Two weeks later she was hit by a car (someone turning around when he saw he was at the end of a dead-end road). It was a blessing in disguise, as the vet gave Rumple little chance of surviving. Putting her down was sad but by far the best choice.
Now we come to the happy part. Naturally Clover was devastated, having lost her favorite playmate, so I quickly called the lady who has always supplied us with puppies, most from a Rescue Organization in Puerto Rico. All she had on hand were a Chihuahua and a mixed pug, neither of which I really cared to have on Locust Hill. But ten minutes after I'd hung up, this generous lady called me back.
"You've had such a terrible time, Mrs. Taylor," she said, "that I'd like to give you the last little girl in my latest litter of Basenjis. She's just ten weeks old and really adorable."
A Basenji? We all know that you don't look a gift horse in the mouth, but I'd never even heard of a Basenji. Were these dogs big, small, bright, stupid, well-behaved or naughty??? I made a date to go see the pup the next day, then got busy on the Internet, googling "What's good what's bad about your dog." This impartial website listed many good things about Basenjis, who are barkless African dogs. Instead of barking, they yodel. Instead of walking, they prance. They are extremely intelligent and being short-haired, do not shed. Imagine having a dog that doesn't shed! The pictures of Basenjis were almost as adorable as the one I made into a Christmas card.
Then came the bad news. "Do not get a Basenji unless you are able to exercise it at least four hours a day as its energy level is so high that it will amuse itself by tearing up both your house and your yard."
Oh, my. Did I need that kind
of pup? Chewing up my slipcovers,
digging holes in the garden, maybe
even chasing the sheep? But the
next day when I put that little girl
in my lap she sat quietly looking
up at me with a funny little frown
and won my heart. I brought her
home. Clover was ecstatic, im-
mediately getting out all her toys
and begging the new pup to play.
What to call her? I couldn't come up with a name. Finally my son-in-law named her, Gottoo. A weird little name, as in "Got to get her. Got two dogs again." It stuck. She is full of energy, has absolutely no shame, has chewed up library books, bank statements, clematis vines, toilet paper, reading glasses, my credit card (the only item she removed from my wallet which remained unchewed) and even my hearing aids (fortunately didn't swallow them!). Her yodel is priceless and so is her curled-up tail.
Being African and short-haired, I
worried about how Gottoo would survive
the winter, so I spent an afternoon insu-
lating the doghouse, putting Plexiglas
over the doors (it's Clover's house, too)
and cutting a new door on the east side
which gets hardly any wind. I shouldn't
have bothered. She tore the insulation
to shreds. She is like a little furnace when
it's cold, going xcountry skiing with Clover
and me, leaping through the snow drifts,
happy as a snow bunny.
I'll get back to gardening with my next column. Happy New Year!
