Biology Reference
In-Depth Information
Danny, and with rollicking adventure: crawling through culverts, swimming in creeks, run-
ning through the woods, balancing on gently sloped ladders, diving into swimming pools,
walking across balance beams. Working-dog heaven.
“You'd better have something for this pup to do once it gets to your house,” Lisa Mayhew
warned me. She was right. This was not a pup who was going to lie there as Solo now did,
snoozing while we watched the new
Sherlock Holmes
on PBS and ate dinner on rickety TV
trays. Our morning ritual of coffee in bed with the
New York Times
would be history. Solo
slept in and arose, with a luxurious stretch and yawn, only when we decided to.
This would be the kind of pup handlers name Havoc, Harm, or Hecate. We'd kept another
name in reserve for years. It had aged nicely and still rolled off our tongues with pleasur-
able, bisyllabic ease: Coda. Now, though, my goal wasn't a pup who would reflect a quiet,
thoughtful ending. I wanted less sonata summation and more Beethoven's coda for his 8th
Symphony: fast and furious at points, occasionally disharmonious, “anything but orthodox.”
This time I would be sobbing in David's arms late at night if the puppy
didn't
immediately
leap on us, scrabbling to pepper our arms and legs and noses and toes with puppy bites and
claw marks, making us look like heroin addicts. Solo taught me that such behavior wasn't
personal, and it wasn't aggression, but rather a gnawing, biting appetite for life. My standards
had changed. I knew I could build in obedience, but it was harder to build drive if the basic
material wasn't there. I could teach a pup not to leap over the couch and all over us and not
to chew on hands. At least, given a few months. Or years.
For all our preparations and research and joy about the choice, I also felt mournful and
scared. We were moving into medium-risk territory after several years of relative comfort. A
puppy would take lots of time, time away from Solo. That was if Solo even accepted a pup
in the house. Also, I would be abbreviating his training in favor of the hot new pup on the
block. Getting a new dog up and running could take up to two years—if the pup continued
to show promise, if the K9 teams in Durham allowed me to train with them, if no terrible
accidents occurred. I had a discussion with another volunteer handler about what might hap-
pen if the new dog and I washed out: She condoned finding the dog a new home and moving
on quickly to another. I wasn't sure I could do that. I did know our house was too small for
three German shepherds. And I was fully aware of the problem of “second-dog syndrome.” If
the pup didn't work, it would be partly my fault.
I had encouragement in my forebodings. Two experienced law enforcement trainers told
me that I would never again have a dog as naturally good as Solo. When I told Nancy that,
she scoffed and told me not to be maudlin. “It's the handler, stupid,” she said. Within the
hour, I overheard Nancy telling a friend that she had just lied to me. I might never again have
a dog as good as Solo. I knew that this wasn't the first time she'd lied to me. Her first major
lie came when I entered her yard in Zebulon, my belly pack filled with liver treats strapped
