Orphans

There is one constant in my life: when I eat, my dogs are right next to me. They would be sitting in my lap if allowed. All dogs beg, I know this. But Thatcher and Boden play mind games. They look so alarmingly sad, that it makes you want to give them your food. Like it's your idea, not theirs. I know that they are never hungry. I'm usually the one to feed them. So why do I always feel obligated to save my last bite of toast crust for them? It's ridiculous. Anyhow, tonight they performed their normal begging routine while I enjoyed some ice cream. This is when something terrible happened. Boden officially started drooling. Granted, he's extremely sloppy and always has crusty gunk on his fur from eating or drinking anything, but tonight it was genuine begging drool. The kind that just hangs there and grows longer with every bite a human takes. He, thanks to Thatcher, has perfected the "I'm just a sweet, starving puppy" look. So I now lose the last two bites of every meal to my little orphans. And I end up with double the drool on my lap because of it.

Hoping for a bite of ice cream

Hoping for a bite of anything

Embrace the drool

One thing everybody knows about Newfoundlands is that they drool. There is no way around this fact. I can't count the number of times someone has commented on how perfect the breed is... except for the drool. I usually laugh and nod my head in agreement, but it's made me realize something. I don't mind the drool anymore, and I no longer consider it a "flaw". Sure, it isn't fun arriving at work and noticing that my slacks are covered in crusty drool. Seeing the splatters of dried drool, usually mixed with some fur, all over the walls of our house can be kind of gross too. Watching the streams of slime hang down their jowls while they beg for food can hinder any human appetite. And it definitely isn't my favorite when one of the Newfies comes over and lays his head in my lap right after he's done gulping toilet water. Yet however messy the drool can be, it consistently provides one thing: laughter. Who can look at a happy, drool-covered Newfie face and not smile? I dare anyone to try. 

Eleven seconds flat

Eleven seconds. That's how long it takes Thatcher to chew the plastic cap off a water bottle, including the little plastic ring around the top too. I can't remember exactly when or why he developed this obsession, but no water bottle in his path is safe. Even full water bottles better watch their back. Tonight I was sipping out of my bottle of sparkling water when I realized Thatcher was sitting directly in front of me staring expectantly. You'd think it was prime rib or something. But no, our dog is cheap to please. We've gotten in the habit of tossing him our empty bottles when we're finished. He dutifully chews the cap and ring off, then looks around for another. Doesn't chew the actual plastic bottle, doesn't eat any of the plastic at all. It just really bothers him when the plastic cap is left on. Of course, this means that our entire house is always littered with little plastic caps that I have to constantly run around cleaning up. Yet another one of the endless perks of owning a dog. Between caps, and the tufts of fur covering any floor surface, and the crusty drool marks on most walls, not to mention his dozens of half-chewed bones and toys with missing limbs, it is near impossible to keep a house with a Newfy in it perfectly clean. And here we are about to double our mess by adding another Newfy to the family. I don't know where my sanity went.

We're leaving Saturday morning to meet and bring home our little guy. They live about three hours away, so we'll be up and on the road bright and early. After waiting for about six months, it's so strange that we'll have him here in less than two days. We haven't even gotten anything ready yet, so I guess Petsmart will be one of his first fieldtrips. Yet to determine how Thatcher is going to react when he learns that he has to share his parents with a brother from now on. Let the puppy days begin!

Loving summer

We spent Sunday evening in Thatcher heaven, aka: the dog park. The usual frolicking, splashing, swimming ensued. The nice thing about this dog park is that it's always full of life. Thatcher gets to practice greeting dogs politely, sharing sticks and coming when called. Well, he doesn't actually work on that last one. We do. Zero progress as of yet, but we're hoping for the day when he at least acknowledges that we are present. His favorite activity at the dog park is snatching balls or sticks from other dogs. I'm not proud of this. He's become rather lazy and rarely retrieves anything when we're in public. He loves the chase, but that's about it. So he's learned to wait until another dog has dutifully retrieved the stick or ball their owner threw for them. When they are almost to shore, he'll run out and take away whatever they have (if they let him). Needless to say, he gets growled at pretty frequently. 

To add to this, on the rare times he does retrieve something, he won't let it out of his mouth. He'll just carry it around proudly, looking out of the corner of his eye to see if any dog will dare try and take it back. Many other dog owners get confused, because their balls seem to vanish out of thin air. Unless we apologetically tell them that no, their ball hasn't disappeared, our dog is just hiding it in his droopy cheeks, they never know what happens. Thatcher's just a lost cause. I'm curious to see what different quirks the new puppy will have. Oh, and Thatcher says I can't forget to mention his absolute most favorite thing in the world about leaving the dog park: our ice cream stop on the way home. 

 

Firework scare

Eventful night last night. In a bad way. We had some family over for a BBQ, and all of the guys were outside playing in the backyard. Thatcher, of course, had to be out there too. Well my sister-in-law and I were inside chatting and sipping on some wine, when we kept getting interrupted by the sound of fireworks. The guys had pulled out some leftovers from the Fourth of July and in true male fashion, had started having a firework "war" and throwing fireworks at each other. My sister-in-law and I kept getting irritated by the noise, when it occurred to me that Thatcher was out there with them. He is deathly-terrified of fireworks. That is no exaggeration. Right then, one of the men ran in for a lighter and I asked them where Thatcher was. He replied, "He's here inside, in the basement." A few minutes later, I decided I better go check that Thatcher really was in the basement. At that same moment, the guys all realized that Thatcher was definitely not outside. Everybody came running in the house and started looking and calling for Thatcher. He was nowhere to be found.

It was about 10pm and dark out by this time. Thatcher is black. I had no idea how we would find him. The guys fanned out and started searching the neighborhood. I found a flashlight and searched our yard, front porch and the next-door neighbor's yard. Fifteen minutes passed and still no word of Thatcher. We were all feeling awful, and I was about to go into panic mode. Right then, I get a call that they found him several blocks away. An elderly woman had found him and was holding him by the collar, walking him around the neighborhood and trying to find who owned him. A few minutes later, the guys showed back up with Thatcher, who was extremely shaken up. He spent the next couple of hours hiding in the bathtub, refusing to leave it. He's a little jumpy today, but pretty much back to normal. We swore we will never ever again allow fireworks anywhere near our house. 

On a brighter note, here's a few pictures from Thatcher's most recent photo-shoot with me. Enjoy. 

Country boy (wannabe)

Thatcher had a blast up north last weekend. Ran around a family member's farm, pretending to be a country dog. Played with our nieces and nephews, chased chickens and jumped up and down hay bales. He adores the farm. When we turn down the gravel road in that last mile, he perks up and starts literally shaking with excitement. One of his favorite activities out there is swimming in the river that runs through the woods near the house. Once out of the car, he'll beeline directly to the river if we let him.

The only problem is that masquerading as a country boy is hard work for a city-raised boy. Thatcher usually tires out within the first hour or two, and spends the rest of the day slowly wandering the yard or napping in the house. He'll follow the little girls everywhere, making sure they stay safe in the yard. He met our new nephew, who is just two-months old. Spent much of his time lying on the ground next to the baby, sleeping with one eye open, keeping an eye out for trouble. I'll be interested in seeing how Thatcher does when we have our own kids one day. We've always joked that he'll be a fantastic nanny.

Update on the new puppy: Four weeks old, snuggly, sweet and huge. In pictures, he already looks bigger than what Thatcher was at 9 weeks. We get to bring him home in one month and the name is still yet to be determined.

The dog days

Eventful weekend. On Saturday we took a 4 hour road trip to visit some of my family. Thatcher came along and loved it. He's an angel in the car, besides the dirt and drool he spreads all over the backseat. His favorite position is to squeeze his head onto the armrest between the driver and front passenger seats. He has to be as utterly close to us as possible. When he was younger, he would often climb onto my lap up front. I have no idea why we allowed this, but he was little and cute back then. So occasionally he'll still try to clamber up front, not realizing that he's no longer the 20 lb ball of fur he used to be. It definitely has made people driving next to us do a double-take, when they see this huge black dog squeezed onto my lap and all hunched over in the passenger seat. 

Rainbow on the car ride home

When we arrived at my family's, Thatcher got to run around and play with their two puppies. By run around and play with, I mean he followed them around hopefully while they pretended he didn't exist.  They are a four-month-old brother and sister pair who have never been separated from each other. They literally live in their own little world. They would start wrestling, and Thatcher would gleefully race over to them and try to get in on the action. But they would just ignore him. Poor fellow.

Yesterday we "discovered" an amazing dog park. It's seven acres of woods and trails right along the river. Swimming + tromping through woods + lots of other dogs = Thatcher in heaven. Sometimes I feel bad for him, because he tries to play with other dogs and they don't always want anything to do with this big, goofy giant. He's too slow to have a chance at fetch with the retrievers, too large to play wrestle with the rambunctious dogs, too oblivious to pick up signals when another dog is feeling threatened by him. He still loves it though. A person there was throwing a tennis ball into the river for his lab to fetch. Thatch beat the lab to the ball once, but then the ball disappeared. We were all looking around for it, before we realized that it was hiding in Thatcher's mouth for the last five minutes.

Oh, the drool

One thing that people who are unfamiliar with Newfies complain about is the drool. There is no denying that they drool. Quite a lot. However, one misconception is that Newfies drool all the time. And this is slightly exaggerated. With Thatcher, we have learned that there are specific times you'll want to stay out of arm's reach of him.

1. After any form of vigorous exercise. Well, really after any type of exercise or physical activity. Walks, playing fetch, etc. This causes him to heat up and pant for about an hour. During this time, long strings of drool can be found covering his jowls, extra neck skin and even his front legs.
2. After he is finished eating or drinking. Anything. One habit we should have never allowed is drinking from the toilet. Yes, many many people find it really disgusting. But to be honest, it's extremely convenient for a dog whose daily intake of water can be equated to that of a small elephant or horse. It's nearly impossible to keep his water dish full, especially when we're gone all day. So Thatcher has always just helped himself to toilet water. I promise, we keep our toilets very clean. The only downside of this is that if we forget to keep the lids up, they will be soaked. Which is really fun when you're not paying attention and run in to use the bathroom. Also, this makes his drool extra gross. It's always right after he's drinking a gallon of toilet water that he'll walk over to you and shake, causing drool to be flung all over us and the walls.
3. When he is begging for human food. Which is pretty much any time any person eats any food item. If you let him, he'll sit about an inch from you and just stare intently with sad eyes. As minutes tick by, the drool increases more and more. So soon he'll have strands of drool hanging down that nearly touch the ground. Therefore, I've trained him to lie down when he begs instead. This at least protects your feet from becoming covered in drool.

In a nutshell, Newfies drool. But it really isn't the worst thing in the world. You just have to learn when to avoid it. I wouldn't say that I don't notice it, but it definitely doesn't gross me out like it used to.

Bathtub boy

When Thatcher was a little guy, I used to plop him into the bathtub after our morning walks. This was not a punishment, much to the contrary. He's always been infatuated with water. Plus thick black fur makes hot weather slightly unbearable. So on those muggy 90 degree mornings, Thatcher and I would make a quick loop around the block for exercise. When we got home to our apartment, I'd fill up the bathtub with a couple of inches of water and he would lay there for 10 or 15 minutes until he cooled back down. I have videos of this. Our 10 week old little bear cub impatiently pawing at the bathtub, waiting for me to lift him up and into it.

Apparently he has remained quite fond of bathtubs. Throughout the past year, we've occasionally come across muddy paw prints in the tub. We were slightly puzzled, but thought maybe Thatcher was looking for water from the faucet or something. The mystery was solved the other morning, when I waltzed into the bathroom to find Thatcher nonchalantly napping in the tub. It completely startled me and made me jump. But he glanced up, saw it was me, and went right back to sleep. As if it's a perfectly normal place to be dozing. Yeah, I'm the crazy one.