MOLSON Penned on Wednesday October 28, 1987

OUT OF DOORS

Serious dog men will tell you to leave the wife and kids at home when it comes time to pick a pup from a litter. That way you can follow the sage advice of professionals who have mapped out intricate, and some not so intricate, methods of choosing a pup. These methods range in extremes from administering IQ Tests to the pup (wherein it’s assumed that you know more than the pup) to closing your eyes and reaching. As for the family, what can your wife and children possibly know about quality hunting dogs?

So off you go seeking the Gretzky of the puppy pack. And what do you do? Why, in all probability, you forget all of your ‘book learnen’ and pick one just like Rover, your childhood favourite.

Last summer we – the entire family – set out for Perth to pick a pup. To be honest I (we) don’t have a ‘system’. If I regularly purchased pups I’d likely develop some notions. Going on the theory that two brains are better than one I postulated that five brains must certainly be outstanding.

Out of ten pups eight were male. You can deduce the other two.

Changing our “females are better” philosophy we quickly adapted and decided upon a male. (Flexibility is a must when picking a pup). That was relatively easy. Choosing was not.

The three remaining males all looked the same. acted the same and , short of a genetic analysis, appeared identical. How to choose?

Simply pick a pup and run before you are tempted to change your mind? Brainstorm some heavy decisions? With five brains the permutations and combinations could be mind boggling. Compare pups? This one unties shoe laces; that one ties them up. What started as a fun filled experience turns into a giant migraine.

We did none of the above. We played with the pups, observed, and talked with the breeders picking their brains (they liked #4).

“Which one do you like?”

“I don’t know. What do you think?” And so it went.

In the long run I chose – I was ordered to – or we’d still be there.

Sometimes five minds just can’t decide.

I picked #3. Dave, the breeder, had produced a nice new fluorescent green tennis ball and #3 spent most of the time retrieving it. For a seven week old pup I thought that was encouraging. The other two litter mates were more interested in each other’s company. When not retrieving Molson (as I decided to call him) was busy trying to figure out the mechanics of the 4 wheel ATV nearby. I could use a mechanically inclined dog as I wasn’t so bent myself. And, of course, Molson had that new tennis ball. Possession is 9/10 of the law and it sure was a nice ball. With all of those Stirling qualities how could I choose any other?

Heading Home

We couldn’t bring Molson home having chosen him because the breeders said he had to be 8 weeks. And so, the following week we returned. It was a heart wrenching moment for the breeders. They were losing another family member. Their extended family was rapidly shrinking. I might mention that the breeder used to take the pups with him for rides on the ATV and sometimes to check his traps, for he was a trapper.

When I put Molson in his travel box the breeder, Dave, looked a little forlorn. For the 2.5 hour drive I thought the box was the best travel mode, better than a lap.

Until reminded one tends to forget how ear piercing a pup’s cries can be. Especially within the confines of an echo chamber vehicle. Soon the quiet moments gradually lengthened. At Madoc Molson started fussing and my better half suggested that we let him ride the rest of the way home on someone’s lap. Hindsight is great but at the time it seemed a reasonable idea.

That someone turned out to be yours truly because, as it was pointed out, I was bigger, warmer and hairier. Molson would be comforted. I’m still not convinced that was a compliment. Molson snuggled and relaxed.

Beware the Signs

First Molson started looking around. Then, moving around. Was he taking in the scenery? I thought so, perhaps. Then he whimpered. Making conversation? Surely all of that climbing over my body was just a sense of curiosity. Wasn’t it?

Looking back, upon reflection, the message was clear. We should have pulled over. Instead, as Molson was apparently enjoying the passing scenery we continued driving. And suddenly, without warning, he evacuated – if you know what I mean. All over my chest. Fortunately I was wearing a shirt.

Looking rather pleased, and relieved, Molson then settled down for a snooze. The boys in the back, next to me, held their collective breaths. They thought they might be sick.

Just north of L’Amable Molson started agitating once again. I now knew the signs. Hindsight stimulated foresight and I just had enough time to cup my hands for a frontal deposit. Mirth and laughter from the driver’s seat. After all it was MY dog! Noses once again held in the back – with one exception. More cries of, “I think I’m going to be …” Oh joy; oh bliss.

Well we (I) survived to make it home. Molson romped over the lawn joyous from his terra firma reunion. I fought off clouds of adoring mosquitoes – and hosed myself down.

Periodically (12:00; 3 a.m.; 6 a.m.) I would feel a jabbing sensation of pain in my ribs and hear, “YOUR dog is crying.” Whereupon I’d stagger downstairs and take him out. I had forgotten about a pup’s incredible capacity for waste disposal.

The day shift, alias the boys or family pack, took over at 6:35 a.m. By the time I surfaced Molson was fast asleep. Seems he exhausted himself attacking the marigolds.

How did we happen to decide on the name Molson? Well, Molson is a Golden – Retriever.

Yuppies

After the recent stock market crash Yuppies have a new name – Puppies.

What is the difference between a Yuppy/puppy stockbroker and a pigeon?

A pigeon can still make a deposit on a BMW.