My NEXT dog will be grand!

“The mama dog is pregnant!” My daughter sang out with glee. Our daily phone conversation that links her evening commute along the streets of Scottsdale, Arizona and my dinner preparation in the Huson, Montana kitchen was exceptionally celebratory. At last, the anticipated puppy purchase was nigh.

“It’s my pretend baby girl, you know,” she pointed out—a psychological transference I’d already intuited since she has been married for nearly two years and visibly drools every time she so much as sees an empty stroller, let alone an infant in it.

To an extent, a newborn pup will mimic the labor of a human bundle of joy—provided you consider that there are no labor pains suffered leading up to home arrival and no episiotomy from which to heal while you arise from slumber in the middle of the night to rock and walk and cuddle and coo. The responsibilities will resemble—as long as she realizes that a female puppy grows up to be a female dog. In my experience, girl dogs don’t decide one day that they have no friends to play with, won’t cry for days when the boy dog doesn’t like them back, and will never forsake all nourishment save for dry lettuce leaves because she doesn’t think, no matter what anyone tells her, that she looks decent in a bikini. Dogs don’t drive, go to college, need new clothes. Once they are housebroken and sit, stay, and heel, you’re done.

No sooner does the heralded birthday arrive than Katharine sends weekly-progress video clips taken by the breeder who has tied different colored ribbons around the neck of each member of the litter. She oozes with joy over the tiny creatures that, at this point, resemble moles.

“I wonder which one is Lucy—or Abby—or Leia?” she squeals. Among the group, there is not so much as a single distinguishing characteristic. The only counsel I can offer is to “pick the one that comes to you.” Of course, I did that after my husband had selected, between the two, our slightly better behaved German shepherd. Mine is the complete nut case.

Katharine’s mother-in-law is flying in from Seattle to stay for two weeks to help with the newest family member while Katharine finishes up her last days of teaching. I suppose one could view that as infant prep—I’ll be there when the human baby arrives. I’ve easily acquiesced to Chris’ mother on this one—she owns a dog who is well behaved and adjusted, who leaps with joy when heading to the vet or boarding kennel. My three dogs run the other way when I call them, even if I yell “Dinner!” One has accidents in the house, her brothers broke my ankle last year, and unless my husband is home, they are in charge. I would not make a productive mentor.

“Should we name her Lucy, Leia, or Abby?” Katharine zapped a blanket e-mail to everyone with whom she has ever exchanged contacts.

Various responses fly around cyberspace from whomever opts to “reply to all.” I am supportive of whatever moniker the mutt answers to when she’s called (in fat, my advice to the happy couple is to screech each prospective name over and over and see which one sounds best when blasted all over the otherwise silent neighborhood), but when I rate them in order of preference and select Leia as my least favorite, Katharine is dismayed. Seems she has an inclination towards that one.

“All three are cute,” I backpedal.

“But I want you to love it!” Katharine moans, as if she were christening my first grandchild. I live a zillion miles away and since one of my shepherds is so dog unfriendly that whenever one mistakenly wanders up the driveway thinking it’s found a friend, it never returns, how often am I likely to spend time with this animal whose life is in jeopardy just looking at mine?

On second thought, considering the anguish my own dogs are creating in my otherwise peaceful retirement (let’s just say the veterinary bills are formidable and the disciplinary actions unsuccessful), perhaps loving my daughter’s dog as my own is just the ticket! Blithely I can visit and not have to lose sleep after I open the front door to witness all three of my canines catapult over each other and jet out into the woods until past my bedtime. Happily, I will have her here to spend the weekend, pet and pamper, and then either go home or send her back home to Mom and Dad.

Recently, frustration with my own brood has heard me inserting “doggie heaven” into casual conversations. I’ve discussed my next breed options—it will be hairless, healthy, trained, docile, and downright dull. This animal will be utterly content to lie at my feet, will announce to me clearly when it needs to go outside, will require no medical intervention other than annual vaccinations, and will eat so sparingly I won’t have to entertain the idea of returning to the work force to bolster my budget.

Or perhaps… it will be a grand-dog.