LabradorRodeo

Our first puppy meeting together. The dog costume contest.

I was concerned that the costume wouldn’t hold, the helmet or sword would go askew and obscure his vision and movement, that Lomax would wiggle his way out of it in the mad excitement of meeting dozens of new pups and people, that a spontaneous game of puppy flag football would break out and his fine red sash and faux-leather skirted accents would pay the price before the judging began. The contingency plan, of course, was that I would assert it was all part of the act, that Lomaximus had just emerged victorious from a brutal gladiatorial contest.

But there was no need. My beloved charge, my handsome little man, was well-behaved and fairly controllable…and I must say, looked mighty proud and confident in his getup. The much-hated helmet that had inspired death-ray looks of canine scorn in practice runs at home remained secure upon his lofty brow (he was too happy about the presence of others and being the center of attention to care much for the minor inconvenience). No one mauled him, nor did he maul others, though he did earnestly long for some extended sniffs in the general direction of the intact females in their pretty dresses and tiaras.

I had the opportunity to FINALLY, after just over two and a half years as a “future puppy raiser” attending meetings with either no dog or someone else’s, officially introduce myself and my furry foster child. Our happy moment was met with applause and cheering from those who have known me as their go-to puppysitter and a joyous participant in others’ graduations. Of no less importance was my announcement that Lomax was NOT dressed as a Trojan, as he had been announced (I am a UCLA grad with blue & gold blood in my veins), but as “Lomaximus, mighty Roman warrior.”

We came home with a (presumably) delicious rawhide chew tied in festive ribbons, the prize for Best Dressed…which we absolutely were, without question.

Finally, a hearty “Hats Off To You!” goes out to my good friend and former boss Ian at New Deal Studios, without whose tools, expertise, creativity and appreciation for the absurd I could not possibly have modified a child-sized Roman soldier costume to fit a wiggly Labrador Retriever. Thanks again, Ian! I owe you another latte.

My group offers a 10-week class called “Puppy Kindergarten” for members with new 8- or 9-week-old pups. More often a learning experience for the people than the dogs, the kindergarten class encourages and teaches us how to begin working immediately to gain the trust and obedience of a creature that would, in the hands of the average person, probably be no more than an adorable and barely forgivable tasmanian devil (of the Warner Bros. sort).

But the kindergarten teachers are wise and patient, and the simple tricks they know are profoundly effective.

I took year-old Lomax to kindergarten not because he needs to brush up on his basic skills, but because I could always use a refresher…AND because Lomax loooooves other dogs, which is a fine thing for a family dog, but not such a fine thing for a service dog. Not everyone with four legs (or two, for that matter, as Lomax is nondiscriminatory in these matters) is a potential playmate.

His brother Liam comes to these classes, too, because this is apparently a genetic enthusiasm. Liam must stay down under Matt’s chair and observe the class, and behave without whining and fidgeting and sucking up to “his people” for attention.

But I took Lomax through the class itself. It must have looked comical, three other tiny puppies in the on-their-back “cradle” position with their handlers, and me with the remedial student, having to actually reeeeeach forward to grab and inspect his back feet.

He did a fair amount of wiggling and sniffing because he’s not just friendly but also intact (“GIRLS LIVE HERE. I SMELL GIRLS. GIRLS. GIRLS. GIRLS.”), but by the end of the class, he seemed to be fairly attentive and calm. The real test will come at his first official South Bay puppy raisers meeting this coming Monday, which will be wall-to-wall with people and dogs who are new and exciting. And they’ll all be in costume.

Photos to come, I promise.

There’s nothing quite so soft and sweet
As this, dear puppy, Heaven knows!
As though you sense my icy feet,
You rest your head on my cold toes.

Lomax and I helped man (woman? dog?) the South Bay Puppy Raisers booth at the annual Walk For the Animals in Long Beach last Sunday, which means we’ve now officially attended our first GDA event together. It was fun hanging out with some of the South Bay regulars, and brother Liam was there, which made it even better (pics to come). The two of them carved a canine crop circle in the grass and sniffed mutual dog butt like there was no tomorrow (“Hey! I know you! I know you! I know you!”).

Then there was a little blessing of the animals, which required our standing in the midst of a huge mass of people and pets — Lomax wasn’t sure what to make of the free-range tortoise — and straining to hear various remarks and benedictions and whatnot over the barking/growling/whining/”NO!”-ing crowd. “Blah blah blah ecumenical blah noncommittal notion of a higher being blah blah blah don’t we all love the little creatures blah blah all dogs go to heaven blah St. Francis blah blah.”

Then we stood in line in front of our blessing-giver of choice (we found ourselves a charming Catholic priest with a very short line), who addressed Lomax by name, proffered a quick “Father-Son-Holy Spirit,” sprinkled the little man with holy water and “God Bless”ed us on our merry way.

Perhaps the loveliest part of the day, though (because as a regular churchgoer, Lomax is quite accustomed to being blessed), was the post-event hangout in the nearby back yard of Ann, another puppy raiser. Seven Labs off leash, all very happy to see each other.

He slept very well that night.

I laughed when my dad bought some Israeli military-issue gas masks for the family in case of some, what, gas-related emergency? You know, it was the ’80s, and dad had a few “survivalist” friends who seemed bent on being able to live in an underground bomb shelter stocked with an arsenal and a convenience store.

But Lomax spends several hours a day under my desk while I’m at work, and I’m not ashamed to admit that one or two of those gas masks would come in handy right about now.