Molly at Nine Weeks

I'm a terrific pup-parent, but, I'm afraid, a terrible blog-mother.  I'd looked forward to chronicling Molly McNab's adventures with newfound commitment.  Puppy antics are worth sharing and those puppy pics -- well, who can't feel just that much better about life after looking at those eyes, that nose, those pink puppy bellies and soft little paw-pads?  (No one worth writing for, anyway!)  I was determined to jot down a few amusing anecdotes or interesting observations about puppy development on a near-daily basis.

But Molly -- Molly the McNablet -- has been a bad influence on me.  It's tough to type when there's a puppy in the vicinity.  They are the ultimate distraction. "Play with me," the tail wags; "Let me out," the  squeal demands; "Just try and catch me and get this back," the gremlin within them teases as they lope down the hallway with whatever stolen goods they've just procured.  The puppy breath beckons; the bright eyes engage.  I pup-crastinate.

When I sat down to write Molly's week eight update, she was eight weeks old.  That was last week.  She has been growing rapidly since then.  Her funny, stumpy legs have gotten willowy.  Her tail is as long as a lemur's. She has gone from funny piggy puppy to an adolescent.

Molly at seven weeks.
Copyright © 2014 MJ Miller

Each breed or type of dog has, buried deep within its DNA, amazing traits that have been bred into them by intention or accident over the generations.  McNabs fascinate me with their own innate tendencies.  More than any of the other dogs I've had, McNabs learn by watching.  They are self-learners, to some degree.  It makes training them an experience filled with serendipity and epiphany.  I've been spending a few minutes in sessions throughout the day teaching Molly puppy tricks -- tricks that may not necessarily have any "real" purpose in themselves, but that will encourage the flexibility and versatility of her capable mind.  She has an uncanny way of figuring out what I'm asking so quickly that I first write it off as an accident -- a spurious correlation.  As I was teaching her to lie down on command, and then to crawl forward, I started saying, "Bang bang!" and holding the training morsel just to the side of her nose.  She promptly lay flat on her side and took the morsel.  From then on, she grasped the concept of "bang, bang" and (unless caught up in a distracted moment) flops over.

Oh, those distracted moments.  She's still at that young age when thoughts are like butterflies in her tiny head.  I can't fault her for that; focus will come on its own.  For now, I'm glad to see that she "gets" the trick and associates it with what I'm asking.  Later, she will acquire discipline all her own.  She has an exuberance as she does her routine that compensates for any lack of adherence to arrangement.  When Russ spoils her with her "meatballs" (as he calls her favorite treat) at night, he picks up the container and Molly -- entirely of her own volition -- goes through every trick she knows.  She does the sit, the high-five, the sit-up-pretty, the down, the play-dead bang-bang flop.  She does them in no particular order, repeating some a few times, making us wait for others.  Russ dissolves into laughter.  No, there's no discipline.

For now, Molly is all fun and wonder.  Like an eager toddler, she runs wherever she goes.  Gotta go out, Molly?  She does so at the run, bouncing with arched back.  It's impossible not to get caught up in her enthusiasm … her joie de vivre.  If only we could all be so delighted in the world around us -- a world full of joyful surprises, kind people and daily adventure.

Molly shares her playfulness with Shotgun Willie, the cat.  Froggy still maintains a dignified distance from her, although she has come to accept the pup; but Willie -- Willie adores Molly and initiates play time with her.  I've come to think of him as "world's most tolerant cat."  Molly will pounce on him and Willie promptly rolls over, paws up, belly exposed.  Molly straddles him, gnawing with her barracuda teeth on his tender ears, his legs, his belly.  He has yet to smack her in anything other than playful pats; he has not become frightened, nor has she gotten too rough with him.  I assume -- and hope -- that as she gets bigger he will set boundaries.  For now, he wrestles happily with her, then hops up and lets her chase him, his fur glued together with puppy slobber.  See for yourself in this morning's video of them enjoying quality time:

Molly Wrestles with Shotgun Willie

As I write, Molly naps.  Herding the cat, playing rough-and-tumble with Earl, and picking up any unusual object she finds only to carry it about like a treasured prize, have all taken their toll on her.  She must recharge her batteries so she can run with Earl as I do barn chores.  She must save her strength so she can have puppy mayhem when Russ gets home.  She must reenergize so she can get me out of the bathtub every ten minutes to let her out.  And as for me, I must have more caffeine.

Molly Wrestling with Earl

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