Lee Geiger

Happiness is a warm puppy

Charlie Brown

November 18, 2020 – 11:00am:

The rain has turned to snow, and the convoys of eighteen-wheelers hauling freight over the Sierra Nevada’s are lined up on the side of the road like tanks preparing to invade Nevada. Bedraggled truck drivers struggle in the frigid dampness wrestling to wrap clunky steel chains around their tires while I, on the other hand, am warm and comfortable and whisk by them while rocking to Bob Seger, thanking my lucky stars for the generosity of a friendly neighbor who has lent me their all-wheel drive SUV for the day. Nonetheless, I’m a bit nervous about both the driving conditions and the reason for my excursion. I’m sashaying through Donner Pass on my way to Reno. To pick up a puppy.

4:00pm:

Jon Whipple and I met as freshmen back in high school (circa 1974), two midwestern yack-a-doddles (he from Lawrence, KS and me from Chicago) repotted in Carmel. Now he we are, 46 years later, yucking it up at Reno’s Peppermill Resort and Casino. Jon and his lovely wife Jennifer, who live just outside of Salt Lake City, agreed to pick up my new puppy from his breeder in nearby Herriman and drive the 500 miles to save me some time and effort. Talk about your understatements! Jon swears on a stack of ham steaks that the trip gave he and his wife an excuse to get out of town to get some relief from the pandemic. That may indeed be true, but I also know better; Jon is, has, and always will be, a great friend. I’m a firm believer that God broke the mold when he made a man like Jon Whipple.

We look like a pair of masked felons supplementing our Social Security checks by consummating a drug deal in the casino’s vast, nearly empty parking lot. The pathetic social distancing ritual we perform only adds to the weirdness of the moment. Jon hands over the wiggly white ball of fur, one of eight from a litter born only eight weeks prior. I put the little welper down and watch the English cream-colored, pure-bred golden retriever relieve himself and scoot around a bit, wondering what in the name of Lassie had I gotten myself into.

8:00pm:

Four hours of white-knuckle driving through a treacherous Cuisinart of snow, ice and rain, paired with a non-stop barrage of frightened puppy wails, makes for one very long trip. But the arduous journey is forgotten the instant The Pretty Blonde lays eyes on the newest member of the Geiger clan and cradles him in her arms. For both mom and dog, it’s love at first sight.

Nicky, or last dog, passed seven years ago. Since then, Anne and I had spent countless hours debating the merits of getting another dog, always deciding at the end that because we both worked it would be cruel to leave a dog home alone so much. But in May, after two months of COVID restrictions and a future of limitless work-from-home possibilities, we decided that now was the time to get a dog. Not to mention the fact that grandchildren were at least another five years down the road.

We soon learned, however, that we weren’t the only couple on the planet wanting a new pet. Our first choice was another house-trained golden retriever (a.k.a. Nicky 2.0). We contacted numerous dog rescue services, first in Northern California, then Southern California, and then anywhere else west of Denver. No such luck. We then decided to go the puppy route, but that was even harder. Waitlists in California were up to two years, and the cost of a puppy rose faster than Bitcoin. I then decided to look outside of California and found a wonderful breeder named Kamri Wardle at Soaring Goldens in Herriman, Utah. I HIGHLY RECOMMEND HER.

Four months later, thanks to a big, late September litter from parents Lilly and Rocky, we were in line to finally get our dog. Now, just a week before Thanksgiving, an eight-week-old fluffy white bundle of joy that resembles a miniature polar bear is sniffing for scrapes in our kitchen. And because I had promised her naming rights, The Pretty Blond decides this four-legged family member shall forever be known as Brody. And that, as they say, is that.

Christmas 2020

A rambunctious Brody is now sixteen-pounds of pure fuzz-butt. Nothing in the world brings a smile to my face faster during this Christmas season than watching Brody perform a set of “zoomies” around the yard before snagging a stick and jaunting across the lawn with it like Simba the Lion King; his shoulders square, head held high and white ears flapping like angel wings in the afternoon sun. He’s Brody, ruler of the Pride Lands. Or at least our backyard.

Commands like “sit,” “come,” and “down” are becoming more natural to our three-month-old puppy, so long as there’s a tasty treat mixed in somewhere. Brody is an extremely smart dog, but sometimes too smart for his own good. He’s fearless when it comes to testing the boundaries of what passes for good behavior, but he’s come to understand that a loud and stern “NO” means “don’t even THINK about it, dog.” Brody is also very sensitive, and he runs and ducks for cover the instant “bad dog” leaves our lips. Which, thankfully, isn’t very often. That being said, it’s a good thing Brody’s cute, because he’s left “accidents” in nearly every room of the house. Some will become legendary, like the night he got out of his crate, farted, and left a “chocolate slushy” on the carpet next to our bed. YUCK!!! And did I mention Brody’s constant need to nibble his razor-sharp puppy teeth on everyone and everything he comes in contact with? The dog chews on concrete, for God’s sake.

Brody’s paws are huge, and the vet says that within a year he will top the scales somewhere between 70-80 pounds. Based on the ferocity with which he attacks his food bowl, I’d highly recommend taking the over.

On this Christmas Day 2020, The Pretty Blonde and I are going to sit around in our pajamas noshing on some of her homemade monkey bread and wonder what in the world we ever did with ourselves before this lovable, sweet, funny, and all-too-adorable fluff ball came in our lives. We honestly can’t remember.

Merry Christmas, everyone. And here’s to a happy and healthy 2021.