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by Katherine Nevius, Minstrel Boxers, Vienna, Virginia
Well Trained
Easter's dawn marked the fourteen week birthday of my two remaining
Minstrel Pups – Chant (Minstrel's Plainsong) and Redford (Minstrel's The
Natural). They've been busily doing the things that little doggies
have to do in order to prepare for futures in the show ring:
learning the ropes of
stacking and moving on lead (well, they've got the stacking part down
pat); sleeping in crates (they still refuse to do so
alone); strutting their stuff in a puppy match (in their class of
four 3 to 6 month boys at the Tar Heel Boxer Club recently, Redford won
the class and Chant took 2nd. :)
There's one other item that show dogs need to do well: eating. If a
show dog won't eat, his ribs stick out and he's generally not all that
attractive to a judge. After all, dog shows are beauty
competitions. Redford's going to make the Olympic team in that
event; Chant may not even get to the starting gate.
This morning's feed was a typical case in point. Both pups leap and
scratch at my jeans-clad legs (HOW grateful am I that it's still cold
enough to wear long pants?) as I descend the stairs from the kitchen to my
bedroom, wherein currently resides the boys' crate. As I lean down
in an attempt to place one stainless steel bowl inside it, Redford stands
upright, knocking his
head on the top of the opening in an aborted attempt to gain entrance,
simultaneously grabbing my wrist with his front paws in a death grip so
that I have to swipe his legs out from under him with my foot before I'm
free to insert his bowl inside.
Once that's accomplished and he's back on his feet, he springs at the
opening, once more missing it, falling on his butt, shaking his head and
giving one last thrust as he makes it finally to his goal. Into the
bowl dives his churning maw. It remains there until, thirty or so
seconds later,
bowl cleaner than brand new, he sits, Buddha-like with stomach protruding,
facing out, burping and hiccupping like Henry VIII.
During that performance, Chant has exhibited a counter-approach to the
consumption of the morning meal. Once Redford has made it into the
crate and I've locked the door, I place Chant's bowl on the carpet in
front of his brother. He dutifully begins to eat. As he does,
his tail mechanically ticks and tocks side to side like a palsied
orchestral conductor leading a geriatric band. Three or four seconds
elapse, and he raises his head to look me in the eye (I must remain seated
by him or all bets are off), his tail's fervor increasing two- or
threefold. I smile reassuringly and begin to stroke his back.
He returns to his chore. Up comes the head again in a second or
two. I repeat the smile and the pats, and he repeats the kibble
submersion. It goes on this way until a bubble of air builds up in
his stomach. At that point, he stops and wanders off.
Sometime in the next minute or so, he'll burp. That action appears
to remind him that he's still hungry, but not so hungry that he's willing
to proceed in the normal fashion. He sashays over to me, then to
Redford who (long ago done with his meal and imprisoned behind bars)
watches implacably as his brother toys with a prize that Redford considers
well worth its weight in gold. At this point, I understand that hand
feeding must commence.
I dip my palm into the remaining nuggets, and like a child at a petting
zoo, gingerly offer my gentle boy yet more of his morning repast.
This he takes gratefully, tail jump-started, neck gracefully bent.
Two of three handfuls is his limit, though. Again, he wanders
away. On to the next activity.
I must woo him back, Hansel and Gretel style, by dropping single kibbles
in a line from where he is to where I want him to be. He dutifully
follows the path I set, grazing until he reaches the metal bowl once
again. Then he sits, and I place a small pile on the ground in front
of him. At this
point, he'll nibble a tad more, then either wiggle wildly, indicating his
belief that I am a fine potential playmate or sit down hard and appraise
me as if I'm nuts.
Considering what I've just gone through to induce him to nourish his
long-legged form, I don't think it's much of a stretch to decide which of
those descriptions most applies. :-)
Katherine Nevius
Minstrel Boxers
BoxerKate@earthlink.net
http://www.minstrelboxers.com
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