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Jill Abramson - The Puppy Diaries: Raising a Dog Named Scout

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Book:
The Puppy Diaries: Raising a Dog Named Scout
Author:
Jill Abramson
Publisher:
Times Books
Genre:
Books / Non-fiction
Year:
2011
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An instructive and marvelously entertaining chronicle of a puppys first year, by the executive editor of The New York Times

One sparkling summer day, Jill Abramson brought home a nine-week-old golden retriever named Scout. Over the following year, as she and her husband raised their adorable new puppy, Abramson wrote a hugely popular column for The New York Timess website about the joys and challenges of training this rambunctious addition to their family. Dog-lovers from across the country inundated her with e-mails and letters, and the photos they sent in of their own dogs became the most visited photo album on the Timess site in 2009.

Now Abramson has gone far beyond the material in her column and written a detailed and deeply personal account of Scouts first year. Part memoir, part manual, part investigative report, The Puppy Diaries continues Abramsons intrepid reporting on all things canine. Along the way, she weighs in on such issues as breeders or shelters, adoption or rescue, raw diet or vegan, pack-leader gurus like Cesar Millan or positive-reinforcement advocates like Karen Pryor.

What should you expect when a new puppy enters your life? With utterly winning stories and a wealth of practical information, The Puppy Diaries provides an essential road map for navigating the first year of your dogs life.

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Table of Contents

To Henry

The truth about getting a new dog is that it makes you miss the old one.

This reality hit me hard one spring day in 2009 when we arrived at Thistledown Golden Retrievers, near Boston, where my husband, Henry, and I had come to meet Donna Cutler, a breeder of English golden retrievers. Because it was named Thistledown, and because I knew that the golden retriever breed was started by someone actually named Lord Tweedmouth, I was expecting the place to look like a country manor.

Instead, we parked in front of a plain suburban ranch, and the only hint of the litter of the seven-week-old puppies we had been invited to inspectthough we knew it was really us who had to pass muster with the breederwas a sign on the front door that showed two golden retrievers and said WIPE YOUR PAWS. Why did I suddenly feel like wiping my eyes?

My heart was still hurting over the loss of Buddy, our stone-deaf, feisty-to-the-end West Highland white terrier, who had died in March 2007 at age fourteen. Our two children, Cornelia and Will, who grew up with him but flew the nest years before his demise, often mused that Buddy was my one perfect relationship in life.

Buddy, like me, was a self-sufficient type, and despite his small size he was no lap dog. Like many Westies, he was woefully stubborn and never once came when called. He could be unpredictable and grouchy around small children and once bit my goddaughters upper lip. He wasnt great with old people, either; years later, he bit the leg of an elderly woman who, for some inexplicable reason, was standing barefoot and dressed in her nightgown in our elevator when the doors opened on our floor. (Happily, that incident triggered an unlikely friendship between Eve, Buddys victim, and me.) Nonetheless, I was madly in love and forgave Buddy all his sins. I learned a lot from him, too; among other things, he taught me that even in stressful situations dogs have a unique way of steering you in unlikely and interesting directions.

Buddy and Jill on the porch in Connecticut

I confess that I spoiled Buddy beyond all reason Houseguests often awoke to - photo 2

I confess that I spoiled Buddy beyond all reason. Houseguests often awoke to the aroma of grilled chicken with a dusting of rosemary, which I liked to give him for breakfast. Henry would sometimes note, without rancor, that when I took business trips and called home, my first question was always Hows Buddy?

Long after Cornelia and Will began to wriggle out of my embraces and find my made-up games annoying, Buddy was always happy to have me scratch his pink belly and play tug-of-war. While my children filled their lives with school, scouting, and sportsand, later, college, work, and loveBuddy remained my steadfast companion.

When Buddy was a puppy, we lived in Virginia, and together he and I would amble around our neighborhood for miles, discovering new side streets with interesting houses. Someone always stopped to admire him, which is how I met a lot of my neighbors. During our walks I was also able to let go of some of the pressure of my job as an investigative reporter, back then for the Wall Street Journal . Sometimes, with my mind wandering free as I pulled the leash this way and that, I would come up with a great story idea or reporting angle on the Washington scandals that were my frequent reporting targets. Buddy, steadfast and true, was my loyal coconspirator.

I once experienced a rare eureka moment while on a walk with Buddy. I had recently left the Journal and gone to work in the Washington bureau of the New York Times , where I was on the team of reporters covering the Monica Lewinsky scandal. One day in late 1998, as Buddy and I strolled up Second Street South in Arlington, I realized that one of the people I had encountered in a document the previous night was familiar to me; he was a prominent conservative lawyer in New York. Why his name surfaced in my brain during a walk with Buddy the next morning is anyones guess, but when Buddy and I got home, I took out the documents I had been reviewing and found that this lawyer was mentioned repeatedly. That discovery led to a front-page story about how a cabal of conservative lawyers had secretly worked on the sexual harassment case that triggered impeachment proceedings against President Bill Clinton. Buddy, my silent partner, deserved to share the byline on that story.

Although independent and often fierce, Buddy was always happy to see me. When my children were in their late teens, I couldnt help but notice that he, unlike Cornelia and Will, was never sullen and didnt ask to borrow the car. And when I became the Times s Washington bureau chief, I noted that unlike the reporters who worked for me, Buddy was unfailingly delighted whenever I came up with what I thought was an inspired idea.

Buddy, you see, was my first dog, and I had fallen hard. Perhaps this new relationship was so intense partly because it wasnt based on words, unlike the rest of my personal and professional life. I spent so much of my day talking, reading, and writing that it was both a relief and a joy to spend time with Buddy. Except for a few simple commands, our conversation consisted entirely of my silly cooings and his appreciative grunts.

My older sister, Jane, has often observed that what she found most surprising about me was my late-in-life transformation into a dog lover. You were a wonderful parent, she once told me, but Ive never seen you so affectionate or expressive with anyone the way you are with this dog. It was true. At work, where some of my colleagues and sources said they found my tough-girl investigative journalist persona intimidating, I was constantly pulling out the latest snapshots of Buddy and telling everyone my latest dog stories. Buddy was more than my coconspirator; he also seemed to certify me as a nicer person.

It wasnt just Buddy. I also adored Arrow, my sisters Jack Russell mix, who greeted me with ecstasy at her door. Arrow and I formed a special bond when I moved from Washington to New York in 2003 to become the Times s managing editor. Henrywho worked at a Washington, D.C., think tank and was in the process of becoming a consultant in New Yorkand Buddy werent able to join me in Manhattan right away, so I lived for a couple of weeks with Jane; her husband, Jim; and Arrow. My love affair with Arrow was kindled during this period by the doggy bags I often brought home from the swanky restaurants where I had business dinners. Arrow, I recall, was especially fond of the grilled liver and bacon from an Italian place called Elios.

I grew up in an apartment on Manhattans Upper West Side. Our parents allowed Jane and me to have turtles, fish, parakeets, and even a hamster, who outlived all our other pets. (During the famous blackout of 1965, I spent hours funneling water into a tropical fish tank to provide enough oxygen to save a pregnant fantail guppy and her impending brood.) But my parents drew the line at a dog. The city is not a good place to raise a puppy, my mother told us. Despite our pleas, and even though we lived across from Central Park, she was unyielding.

Buddy arrived in 1992, when Henry and I were in our late thirties and our kids were nine and seven. That was also the year my father died, so Buddy was especially welcome. Cornelia and Will told the usual childrens fib about getting a pet: they assured me that they would faithfully feed and walk this adorable addition to our family. It didnt work out that way, of course, so I took care of Buddy, training him, feeding him, and singing him to sleep in his tiny crate. I didnt mind, though; having new life in our house was a tonic for my grief over the loss of my dad.

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