PUPPY RESCUE...STREET CRED? / 2:35am & Other Stories

Must haves for new puppy: 

• Hypoallergenic. 
• Male.
• Large enough to keep my husband looking like a man’s man. 
• Small enough not to overtake my home. 
• Cockapoo (Cocker spaniel/Poodle mix) or Snoodle (Schnauzer/Poodle mix). 

I have three daughters of varying estrogen levels, and a husband in need of a male ally, a puppy is what was needed to muster calm out of chaos. Meanwhile, friends of ours had purchased poodle mixes for astronomical prices, from farms as far away as Wisconsin and Virginia. Our budget was not as elastic. So we'd visited a few shelters hoping to save ourselves from the headache of overspending. Truth is, we'd visited one shelter south of Houston Street. Only to find, the fees for adoption were as onerous as buying a dog from one of the pricey pet shops in our beloved Brooklyn. Afterwards, we'd adopted the mantra: the right dog at the right price. 

Although, it had taken months, I'd discovered the website of a breeder in Pennsylvania. And after clicking through many photos, I stumbled upon a picture and related video of the most adorable affordable puppy. Then, one short phone call later, we were the proud owners of the cutest Cockapoo imaginable. 

Days before picking him up, we'd purchased a variety of canine necessities: a large crate, a little blue bed, an Amazon-approved leash, matching feed/water bowls and the highest quality pee pads. Upon retrieving him from rural Pennsylvania, which involved an eight-hour drive round trip, we'd spent several days/nights crate/poop training. The realities of pet parenting had hit hard when at 2AM I'd rushed him to the garden to avoid his peeing on the hard wood.

Then time came to socialize our Cockapoo. It the time our Cockapoo learned the ways of puppy hierarchy. So I took our dog to the long meadow in Prospect Park, considered Brooklyn’s Holy Grail for well-socialized dogs and their doting parents. While on the Long Meadow, I'd observed puppy parents gathering to discuss none other than their dogs-so I thought. The conversations had included: sleep habits, mood changes, snack choices and every other mundane behavior you could imagine.  

Meanwhile, I worried when my puppy had chosen to only play amongst his own-a blonde group of poodle mixes. Who knew dogs were such Narcissists? Yet as he mingled, I figured I too, must navigate the puppy parent huddle. When just then, a guy wearing a hooded sweatshirt and sunglasses struck up a conversation.

"Hi." He said.

"Hello," I replied, "Is this your dog?” I said pointing to his poodle mix.

“Yes, he’s mine.”

“He’s so cute. How old?” I asked in a high-pitched voice as I struggled to keep up with the obligatory 'walk the dog' conversation, which always includes a compliment, a discussion regarding the breed of the dogs and a hint at the newest cafe to open in the neighborhood. I'd learn, small talk is hard to conjure. Though sadly, it's what you do as a dog owner. The hooded man continued.

“Hard to tell... we believe he’s two or three." He'd said scrunching his nose. "He’s a rescue.”

I wanted to ask who the we was he'd referred to, but I refrained. But seriously, why do dog owners always speak in we terms? It drives me crazy. Still, I replied.

"Wow, that’s great! Where did you rescue him from?” 

“The shoreline of Puerto Rico... he was tied to the deck of a beach house without a proper awning... I'm guessing poverty issues." He'd whispered. "We picked him up at LaGuardia Airport on Christmas day.”

The hooded man wore dark sunglasses so I'd find it difficult to gauge his emotion. Because I'd thought to myself, he has to be kidding?  Yet suddenly alarmed I'd asked, 

“Did something happen in Puerto Rico? A tsunami, an earthquake?” 

“No, just dogs roaming the beach unattended... the beach is nicknamed Dog Beach. It’s horrific!”

And as the story progressed, I tried picturing similar dogs wandering the shorelines of Brooklyn or any known alleyway in New York City. Yet I couldn't recall the last time I'd seen a lone dog in any city. What ever happened to finding a tag-less dog on the street, reporting him/her to the authorities and when no one comes for it, it’s yours to keep?  Where have the mutts gone? 

When I was younger, my cousin found stray dogs on sidewalks, in parks and sometimes outside the convenient store that sold our favorite crushed ice. And when asked about the breed he’d reply, “It's a mutt.” Back then, he only cared to keep his dogs safe and healthy. Nowadays, owners place considerable emphasis on the breed of a rescue. Which begs the question: is it the matter of pedigree or care? But I digress. 

That day, on the long meadow, I'd encountered Havanese and Pit mixes as well as Sheep and Collie mixes. However, there were none with any perceived physical or mental issues, missing eyes or limbs, keloids from alley fights or twitches; not a limp in sight. Yet according to the puppy parents in the poodle mix group, their particular rescues were riddled with issues, which can surface in an instant.

Nearing the end of our conversation, the owner of the Puerto Rican poodle shared what he'd described as the saddest story ever: Once, after clapping at a fly, his rescue backed away and shuddered. He then let out a long sigh adding, his dog is depressed, sleeps for days straight and will only cuddle at night.

I didn’t know whether to empathize with the hooded man or let out a muffled screech like Scooby Doo. So instead I displayed an unsympathetic expression resembling something between you’ve got to be kidding me, and I think I feel sorry for you? I poker face I do not have. 

To my dismay, I'd spent an hour longer than necessary listening to other stories like his. And I'd wondered if by saying you have a rescue grants access into a world of closeted depressives who rely on free group therapy. Where if you're creative enough to mask your deepest issues within the coded confines of puppy talk, you might discover a cure to your own neurosis.  Not for nothing, it appeared a safe environment for anyone in need of free group therapy before heading off to work. 

Needless to say, I was uncomfortable inside the puppy parent circle. It seemed I didn't fit. I never wear sunglasses, I don't have patience for passive aggressive behavior and I own nothing resembling a hooded sweatshirt. And still, the question: Is your puppy a rescue? taunted me. So I asked myself, "Do I want to be accepted into a group of amateur psychologists/closeted depressives, and risk being rejected or worse, tell my lazy truth? But with my puppy’s social life at risk, I panicked while considering the potential lies I'd tell:

• “Yes, we rescued him from the gentrifying streets of Gowanus...  He was lost and roaming around the canal.” 
• “Sure, we rescued him from Haiti after the earthquake-best thing we've ever done.”

Ok, I'll admit, it had felt awful considering the earthquake lie. But the streets of Gowanus had relevance and just might have resonated with a true Brooklynite. Only thing was, lying to gain street cred was silly. So when the question arose, “Where did you rescue your puppy? I'd said,

“He’s a Cockapoo... we purchased him from a Quaker farm in rural Pennsylvania... and he’s so quirky." I smiled knowing they'd stopped listening. "Because aside from my three daughters, his best friend is a wiffle ball, and he uses his front paws like hands.” 

So there you have it. I told the truth and we'd all over the place. And in that moment, no one laughed or cared. In fact, my response had broken the huddle. Puppy parents scattered away hovered beneath their hoods while hiding behind blacked-out sunglasses as might a post-op Lasik patients. Looking back, it had taken a few minutes to realize my story hadn't resonated, and even more time to notice the huddle had reconvened just a few yards away and that my Quaker puppy and I were shunned. Although, it sucked to be rejected, I wasn't surprised. Social circles are very subjective. Besides, I wasn't ready to concede my neurosis to a group of hooded depressives even if meant I could hide it behind puppy talk. 

One day, not in the near future, I’ll venture into the puppy parent huddle again. But until then, I'll avoid the long meadow while walking along the paved streets of my Brooklyn neighborhood with my truth and my Quaker Cockapoo.