August 12, 2003 had finally arrived. The day that had been circled on the calendar. The day we’d be traveling up to Templeton, MA, to pick up some very special cargo. It was the culmination of a flurry of activity that had been going on for months. Years, in fact: The 2,000+ times that Robby, starting at age 8, had asked, “Dad, can I have a dog?” The upwards of 30 inquiries I’d
made of various “experts” — including a paid phone call to a dog psychologist — to zero in on the breed. (Kind of amazing, after all this, that we still wound up with a beagle. Clearly, our minds had been made up before doing the “research.”) The trips to a certain chi-chi Westport dog emporium to buy dog paraphernalia of every conceivable stripe. The endless calls to our friend Susan, my dog “consultant,” about food, walks, crates, trainers — so many that she finally started barking at me, “It’s a dog — you’ll figure it out!” (In fairness, this was my first dog — ever.) Not to mention two previous pilgrimages to Templeton — the first on July 11 to choose our puppy (this one I did solo; Robby was so
over-excited he couldn’t bear to take part in the decision), and the second on July 22 with Robby and Matt to “visit” Ricky, because Robby couldn’t possibly wait till August 12 to lay eyes on his dog.
Now, on a hot Tuesday in August, Robby, Matt, and I were driving to
Massachusetts to bring Ricky home. On the way up, we stopped for lunch at a BK in Athol. And yes, believe it or not, it is pronounced the way you’re thinking. You can bet we got a lot of mileage out
of “Athol” jokes that day.
When we arrived at the house on Patriots Road, Sandy the Breeder gently removed Ricky — he’d grown since our last visit, but was still tiny — from his crate and handed him over to Robby, who finally got the furry snuggles he’d been dreaming about for years. Matt made sure he got into the action, too. After finishing the
paperwork with Sandy, I took the wheel, Matt rode shotgun, and Robby sat in the back, cuddling some more with Ricky. We pulled off I-91 onto a side road once, for Ricky’s first pee outside his native town.
Greg and Luz were camped in front of the house in Westport, waiting to welcome Ricky home. (Carol had so much not wanted to take
part in the puppy-breaking-in process that she was actually in Poland on a trip she’d intentionally planned around this date.) We all hovered as Ricky teetered around the lawn, looking lost and discombobulated. He was so nervous he wouldn’t even eat the kibble we offered him. (For the record, this is the last time he’s ever refused food.)
That first night I heard him whining softly in his crate in the kitchen. I went in to check on him. Then I lay down next to him. I wound up sleeping on the cold tile floor alongside his crate that whole night. And thus began the training — not of Ricky — but of Beagle Man.
(I hope Robby’s happy now. As you might recall, in a recent post — Ricky Turns 9 — Robby had “suggested” I write about the day we picked Ricky up. As you can see, I take my orders not only from Ricky, but from Robby as well.) 🙂
Very sweet … But for the record, I WAS home … Not just that day, but for the next 6 weeks!! My trip with my mother was at the end of September:). Funny how men remember what they want to remember … And feel free to post this as a comment!!
Unlike Facebook, I can’t find the the thumbs up LIKE button to Carol’s comment.
And that Comment by Carol was from “Other Carol.”
I don’t know who is cuter, Rickie or Robby! Also, I loved the picture of the other young studs surrounding Robby! I wasn’t sure if that was Chris D or Rob G over Robby’s left shoulder. Think it’s Chris.
Yup, that would be none other than Chrissie D!
The boys were so young!! Great Article
Thanks, Judy! And I haven’t forgotten about your 8×10 glossy of Ricky at the wheel, for winning BEAGLE MAN’s “Ricky and the Wrangler” contest. It’s coming . . .