Molly McNab at Twelve Weeks

Molly Gives Two Ears Up!
Copyright © 2014 MJ Miller

It can't be possible that our little girl is twelve … weeks, that is.  Her legs have gotten longer; willowy, we'd say if she were a girl-child instead of a puppy-child.  She's developed a lovely, foxy profile.  She is completely housebroken (whew!) and she whines at the door when it's necessary for her to go out, letting out a "hey, NOW!" bark if we tarry.  Her bark is still high-pitched and her yips are giggly -- like her pre-pubescent human-child counterparts' voices.

Molly is growing up.  She went in for her shots today and, as puppies do, charmed everyone at Animal Health Services.  They charmed her, too -- Dr. Wyman sat on the floor with her and let Molly take her time wiggling her way forward to give kisses and, ultimately, climb up on Dr. Wyman's neck and shoulders (Molly's sincere sign of acceptance).  Becky bestowed treats upon her (having already been bribed with kisses and wags -- Molly remembered Becky).  Molly received a clear bill of health, a seventeen-pound+ weigh-in, and a to-go bag of snacks.  Naturally, I took advantage of having an audience to show off Molly's repertoire of puppy tricks:  the sit, high-five, down, play dead, roll over, and "puppy wave" with both paws high in the air.  Out of respect for the clinic staff who listen to yelps, yips, barks and growls all day, I elected not to have Molly demonstrate her ear-piercing "speak" on command.

Molly in the Vet's Examining Room
Copyright © 2014 MJ Miller

She has had a good day, as puppy days go.  She helped me do horse chores and visited the chickens in the morning.  She plunks her fat puppy booty in front of the chicken pen and stares at them, ears up, grinning.  Oh -- those ears -- they are both fully in the "up" mode now, but one leans to the inside, touching the opposite ear, like a drunken sailor propped against a lamp post.  After chores, Molly had a leisurely quasi-wrestling quasi-cuddle match with Shotgun Willie, her favorite cat.  Here's this afternoon's Molly video:  Molly and Willie cuddling and half-heartedly wrestling.  As if that's not a perfect day already, there was the ride in the car -- Molly's a good traveller by now, but she's still not sure that the car is a good thing -- and, after her return from the vet, a ramble around the ranch.

It was Molly's second full-length ramble.  Already she is exhibiting the characteristics that make me love Mcnabs:  she has learned to "go on ahead" when encouraged.  She waits a few yards ahead to make sure that her slow humans are catching up.  She leaps over the trail obstacles (a couple of downed trees I use for training the horses) with natural athleticism.  She's cautious when we approach the shared fence-line where the neighbor's large, aggressive dogs bark savagely, but she pulls herself together and happily continues as we have passed.  I don't stop and wait along the way when Molly takes a pee-break -- instead, I continue, and Molly races to catch up, just as a good dog should.

It's a joy watching Molly and Earl rambling together.  She is confident.  She doesn't cling to us or Earl but is autonomous.  She and Earl are partners already, close and attached to each other but not conjoined.  Daily, they chase balls together, play keep-away games, and run happy laps playing tag.  Molly waits for Earl to chase the ball Russ throws, then slowly creeps up on him as if approaching a herd of renegade steers.  As she nears, she suddenly bolts forward and, growling fiercely, steals the ball from Earl's grinning mouth.  At night, for their last waking hour, Molly and Earl tussle in bed.  He adopts his best coyote expression -- lips curled up in a snarl that would be frightening were his eyes not smiling.  They growl, gnaw on each other, use their paws to pin and push and slap, and when Molly and her barracuda teeth get too rough, Earl gives her a smack-down.  Her feelings hurt, she'll wiggle over to me and put her head on my shoulder; quickly consoled, she lunges at Earl again, feisty.

Her spunk amazes me.  If only we could raise little girls to be so uniformly gutsy and willing to engage, bullying would likely soon be a thing of the past.  Molly is more resilient than Earl, less sensitive, more rough and tumble.  We named her well; she truly is the unsinkable Molly Mcnab.

Why Buy a Dog, Rather Than Rescue from the Shelter?

K8 the Gr8:  Thirteen years of devotion … forever in my heart.
Copyright © 2014 MJ Miller

These days, telling someone that you bought a puppy from a breeder rather than adopting a dog from a shelter receives a response akin to saying you tortured kittens, were a member of the "1 percent" or had used the "N" word.  There's a social stigma, a gut reaction, an immediate condemnation.  Despising someone for choosing a purebred puppy  is reverse snobbery but founded on a distinct self-righteousness.  I call it "shelter bombing."  It's similar to "mommy bombing," that phenomena where whatever you say is one-upped by a recent mother sharing an anecdote about her precious baby Kieran or Chamomile.  "Shelter bombing," though, is when you share your excitement about your gorgeous new puppy and someone says with a tone of sanctimonious disdain, "Oh, I would not even think about buying a puppy when there are so many innocent dogs on death row at shelters."

It happened to me, recently.  I wrote an article on McNab puppies in which I carefully discussed the importance of matching one's puppy to one's lifestyle, tips for raising one's McNab, and other information specific to the breed in an effort to ensure people considering McNabs don't end up having to give them up because they weren't a good fit.  A reader signed on solely to make that oh-so-judgmental jab:  "I can't imagine BUYING a dog when so many dogs are on death row at the shelters."  There it was!  I was so excited to share the news about my beautiful new McNab puppy, Molly, and BAM!  I was rescue bombed.

Wow.  I immediately went into defensive mode, thinking, "Oh, and I bet you adopted your children rather than giving a home to an orphan, and you most certainly return your shopping cart to the store front, too."  That sort of comment always rankles me:  first off, we live in an overly-judgmental world already, and second, there are some very specific reasons why a shelter dog isn't a good fit for everyone.  Saying someone doesn't love dogs because they didn't adopt a shelter dog is about as appropriate as saying someone doesn't love kids because they had children of their own when orphans are starving in Ethiopia or crack-babies are waiting for homes in East L.A.

Of course, you're not convinced.  Right now, you're thinking, "How awful to buy a puppy!   You're going to hell, for sure, and you're going to burn for eternity sitting right next to that person who threw their Starbucks cup away rather than recycling it.  Sinner!  Heathen!  Spawn of Satan!"

But -- if you can -- set emotion aside and let's think about this rationally.  There are definite, distinct reasons why adopting isn't for everyone.  And that, dear reader, is the key:  what's right for you isn't right for everyone.  Shocking, I know.  Heresy, if you're from urban California.  Nonetheless, it's true.  Go ahead, read the rest of this article and think about it anyway.  I dare you.  (Now, some of you will stop right here, deeply offended, and will skip to the "comment" section so you can call me names.  You're missing out on some important stuff, but hey, it's a free country -- at least for those of us who aren't from urban California.)

Adding a dog to your home is serious business.  I consider my dogs (and kitties, too) to be my family -- my kids.  (Yep, there I go offending the mommy-bombers out there.  Hold it for a different forum.  This is about dogs, not little Shiloh Blue Apple Ivy.)  I don't take it lightly.  None of my dogs have ever -- ever, not in over 40 years of dog ownership -- ended up in a shelter.  They're my babies.  I would, quite literally, do anything for their benefit.  I've lost count of how many friends have laughed and said, "If there's such a thing as reincarnation, I want to come back as one of your dogs."  I love my dogs.

I love dogs in general.  I love big dogs, little dogs, dogs who've gone to finishing school, rambunctious redneck dogs, dogs with attitude and dogs with pure adoration.  I love purebred dogs and I love mutts.  I love dogs with papers and dogs who are paper trained and dogs who still piddle on the carpet.  I don't love carpets.  I love dogs.

As part of the responsibility I feel one should demonstrate when adding a dog to the family, I believe it's important -- critical, even -- to select the proper type of dog for one's own family, lifestyle, and circumstance.  It's a pet peeve of mine, really, when people let their ego override their common sense and they choose a dog that is not bred or suited for their lifestyle or needs.  It ends in heartbreak, often; tragedy, sometimes; and inconvenience, at minimum.  Dogs that are put in an unsuitable environment are unhappy; unhappy dogs sometimes act out; dogs that act out are often put in a shelter.  Aha!  There's the connection:  shelter dogs are the product NOT of just overbreeding.  They're the product of being unsuitable for the owners -- and for owners who don't take the sense of lifelong obligation to their pet to heart.  They're dogs whose owners failed them.  They're dogs whose owners gave them up.

Although I've adopted rescue dogs before, and loved them with every ounce of my being, I have to admit they weren't all the "perfect" dog for me.  Bonnie was my dearest companion for 16 years.  She had a good, long, healthy life.  She was an amazing dog and she was my constant confidante from the time I was 12 until I turned 28.  Bonnie jumped the fence, killed the chickens, buried my grandmother's socks, peed on the carpet, climbed the pine tree and attacked a skunk, and ran off constantly despite our six-foot wall -- and no, she wouldn't come when called.  She'd outrun me.  Bonnie was a foxhound.  She was doing foxhound things and I couldn't expect her to do otherwise.

Now, I don't regret a single minute of my all-too-short time with Bonnie.  I can't tell you how much I loved that dog.  But I can tell you that she wasn't a good fit for my lifestyle and she caused me great anguish.  I swear my first grey hairs were a result of her slipping away in a flash -- bolting over the wall and running along the street -- and my panic as I ran after her.  Many people would have given up on Bonnie.  She might easily have ended up on "death row."  I would never have given up on her.  She was my baby.

As years passed, I learned more about dogs and I learned to make rational, logical decisions when selecting them.  I have certain "minimum standards."  I want an intelligent dog.  I must have one that is non-aggressive around other animals and people.  I will not choose a breed that is infamous for mauling other dogs, children or elderly people who are merely walking their poodle on the sidewalk.  I must have a dog that is not prone to roaming, because I do not want to have to panic every time my dog goes out. It means a lot to me to have my dogs with me as I do barn chores or just hang around the property. I must have a dog that I can let out on the ranch and not worry about it leaving the place.  I also want a smooth-coated dog because I live in the desert and I care about my dogs being comfortable.  I want a dog that is a stock dog because we have horses and we like to work cattle and we value the stock dog traits.  We want a dog that can herd and gather cattle.  We also want an extremely active dog with a lot of stamina and the ability to run great distances, because they'll be hiking with us and riding with us and being busy throughout the day.  I'm here with them nearly all day, every day and I don't want a dog that needs to spend most of its day lounging on the sofa or in a baby stroller.

There's a perfect breed of dog for most people, and for us, it's the McNab.  It's rare that my husband and I don't comment about how ideal they are for us and how we love them.  They just fit. And guess what?  We keep our dogs for their entire lifespan and it's important to us that we get them as puppies.  Sinner!  You scream.  Hundreds of thousands of dogs perish every year at the shelter.  How COULD you?  Well, MY dogs don't go to the shelter.  I donate to the shelter.  I support the shelter.  I actively assist in placing dogs with people as opportunity presents itself.  But no, I do not get my dogs from the shelter.

Here's some interesting news, folks:  there aren't a lot of McNabs in the local shelter.  I know, because I check regularly. Now, sadly enough, there are many shelter and rescue types who have labeled pit-bulls and pit-bull mixes as "McNabs" -- just as they like to label pit-bulls and pit-bull mixes as "Shepherd mix" or "Labrador cross."  What a disservice to the humans and people who are trying to fit a dog to their own lifestyle.  Pitbulls, like other breeds, have specific characteristics that aren't for everyone, just as poodles do, and Great Danes do.  They should be identified as such so they have the advantage of going to a home that is well suited for them.  So should McNabs.

Now, I could just go to the shelter and choose a random dog.  I know for a fact I'd love just about any dog I randomly selected.  That doesn't mean they're right for me.  A tiny dog wouldn't fare well here, with our coyotes and bobcats and kicking horses and other hazards.  I spent 13 years nurturing and cherishing my Papillon -- and she ultimately expired of natural causes.  I have decided against having a tiny dog again, as much as I adore them -- the risks are too great.  It's too risky that they'll meet a tragic end, and too risky that I'll have another heartbreak.

I could choose a dog that would be aggressive, and have to make an unfortunate decision at some point because they are a threat.  That's heartbreaking, too.  I could choose a dog that is prone to hip dysplasia or skin allergies or other issues from over-breeding and careless bloodlines.  Heck, I could choose a dog that has breed-related inability to breathe because their nose is freakishly foreshortened.  I won't, because I love my dogs and I can't put myself through watching their misery.

I researched the right breeds and chose a stock dog -- a McNab, specifically -- because they're right for me.  That means the chance we'll have long, happy, healthy lives together is great.  We have a large property with thousands of acres out our back door that they can romp on.  We spend time with our dogs like (or more than) most people spend with their children.  We are a responsible and caring home.

I mentioned to my husband that I was "shelter bombed."  He shook his head.  He commented that one of his co-workers always gets shelter animals and that he constantly complains about them.  They aren't the right animal for him.  He does the right thing, of course, by adopting a dog.  However, it doesn't mean it's a recipe for sure success.  It may end up with his animals returning to the county pound -- and how said is that?  Sent back to death row because they weren't a good choice?

Dogs are divided into a vast variety of breeds.  They've been selectively bred for hundreds of years to exhibit breed-specific tendencies and traits and conformation.  Poodles are bred for a certain standards; bloodhounds, another entirely; Belgian Malinois, yet a completely different profile.  They are bred for personality traits, work drives, play drives, shape, size, ad infinitum.  One breed doesn't fit all, folks.  It is a cruelty to buy a Malinois and expect it to be a poodle. It's a cruelty to buy a poodle and expect it to be a border collie.  It's a cruelty to buy a border collie and keep it in your poodle-sized apartment and your poodle-suited lifestyle.

For us, we avoid poodles.  Not that I don't appreciate their intelligence and their lack of shedding and their cute, bright eyes.  They're just not the right breed for us.  We have intelligently, rationally chosen McNabs.  Now, you might favor poodles.  I have friends who adopted the most wonderful, loving poodles from the pound.  That makes me happy.  In fact, if you adopt your wonderful, loving random dog from the pound, that makes me happy, too.  It makes me even happier when you keep that dog and love him for the rest of his natural life.  That's a success story.

But don't immediately respond with your self-righteous, "Oh, I would never buy a dog when there are dogs on death row at the shelter" crap.  That just smacks of today's incessant need to control and judge.  It might be right for you but it isn't right for us.  I'll never look at your dog and say, "Oh, I would never buy a dog of unknown parentage."  The way you choose your dogs is as personal a decision as how you choose to have your child.  If you adopt a child rather than choosing to bring one into this overpopulated, violent world, you're a hero.  Choose to carry your own child in your womb and then raise baby Kimber lovingly and well, you're a hero, too.  And if you adopt a shelter dog -- guess what, you're a hero.  But before you raise that sword of righteousness because others don't get their pups from the pound, think about those of us who consider our dogs our own children, and go about having them as logically, rationally and intelligently as possible.  Why?  Because we love them -- and we want them to have long, happy, loved lives with us.

Copyright © 2014 by MJ Miller.  All rights reserved.  No part of this content, including photographs, may be copied, in whole or in part, without the express permission of the author.  Links to this page, however, may be freely shared.  Thank you for linking, liking, pinning, sharing, emailing, forwarding, +1'ing, tweeting or otherwise helping grow my readership.  Most of all, thank you for visiting and reading.  May dog hold you in the palm of his paw.

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

Copyright © 2014 MJ Miller.  All rights reserved.  No part of this article, including photographs, may be reproduced without the express permission of the author.  Links to this page, however, may be freely shared. Thank you for linking, pinning, sharing, liking, +1'ing, tweeting and otherwise helping grow my readership.  Most of all, thank you for visiting.

Travels with Molly: The Homecoming

Of all the reasons to travel, is there any as wonderful as a puppy-retrieval mission?  Imagine my excitement, after months of waiting for Molly McNab's birth and first few weeks, to embark on a road trip to pick her up.  Road trips are favorite activities for me, anyway -- but a road trip with a puppy as destination?  Pure bliss.  Look out, California freeways -- I'm on a mission from Dog.

The view from the winding mountain road through the Los Padres National Forest
Copyright © 2014 MJ Miller

We met our new little girl at Justy and Teri Garcin's Hidden Highlands Ranch in the Los Padres foothills.  I can't imagine better raisers-of-puppies -- or a better lifestyle for these dogs.  They do what McNabs are meant to do:  herd livestock, run long distances, romp with other dogs, and keep a watchful eye on the world around them.  I rarely write about people by name out of respect for privacy, but I can't help but rave about Teri and Justy.  The welcome they gave us, the amazing start they gave our pup, and the thoroughly enjoyable conversations we shared will forever endear me.

Visit the Garcin's Website Here

We met Molly as she was still surrounded by her siblings in a pen-full of puppy exuberance.  The entire litter excelled at pants-leg nipping, waggage, and wiggling.  Not quite seven weeks old, they were already independent and assertive.  Had they not all been spoken for long ago, there's no way we would have made it off the property just one puppy in tow.  Nearby, a McNab-Border Collie litter fought epic mock pup-fights, clamored for attention, and indulged themselves in puppy joyfulness.  This is how puppies are supposed to be raised:  already wanted by committed and carefully-chosen owners; an extremely roomy "puppy corral" that is secure, perfectly clean, and safe; and healthy, sound and properly-screened parent dogs.  

We promptly nabbed our McNab from the rest of the pack and introduced ourselves to her on the deck overlooking the puppy pen.  There, as a sociable cockatoo named Olive supervised, we fell thoroughly in love.  Holly, Molly's mother, and Nellie, the Border Collie, showed off their herding skills for us on a small band of Barbados sheep.

At dusk, Teri escorted us and the older dogs on a ranch-run with her quad.  McNab heaven, that:  happy, active dogs among their own kind, loping along with their ear-tips flapping.  Molly's sire, Cinch, almost stunned me with his demeanor.  In horses, we call it "presence" -- that almost-indefinable quality that emanates from within.  Cinch was clearly His Own Dog.  He exuded charisma and a mature, wise bearing.  I was smitten.

Too soon, early the next morning and as Holly stood guard, we gathered up our black-and-white bundle and headed back to Arizona.  Molly was a capable traveler. Just as Teri had predicted, she suffered a minor bout of motion-sickness that soon passed.  From thereon, she was a pro.

Molly McNab peering out from her travel crate.
Copyright © 2014 MJ Miller

We attempted to be cautious when we made puppy-pit-and-piddle stops to find locations where others had not gone before.  Puppies are, of course, highly susceptible to viruses such as the coronavirus and parvo.  It seemed that whenever we pulled off the road for a puppy-break, we found veritable poo-fests.    (Yes, we did clean up after our own dog.)  Still, Molly made it home intact and without contracting some dread illness.  Much of the drive she spent sleeping behind my neck, where she'd crawled up persistently -- paws on each side of my head, twitching lazily with puppy-dreams.

Then, after several hundred miles and ten hours' drive, we were home.  Earl -- our five-year-old McNab -- and our year-old cats, Froggy Isabella and Shotgun Willie -- were shocked at our arrival.  Here's how the introduction went:

Molly Meets Her New Family

Earl was tentative; Willie was immediately intrigued; and poor Froggy Isabella was devastated.  For the next couple of days, Froggy pouted, her back turned to us from her basket on top of the pantry.  Finally, as I sat on the floor snapping photographs of Molly, Froggy made her way down to us. I was thrilled:  Froggy was approaching the puppy, and I was ready to capture the Kodak moment forever!  As I trained my camera on the pair, Molly lying quietly beneath a chair, and Froggy slowly and regally approached her.  Just as Molly leaned forward to touch noses, Froggy growled, hissed, struck out and slapped Molly with a left paw.  No, I didn't get the exact moment of the smack-down on film, but here is the split second just prior:

Froggy Welcomes Molly.
Copyright © 2014 MJ Miller

As soon as she'd made her point, Froggy strode over to the rubber ball Molly had just been playing with -- an old hollow ball with a bell inside that Froggy had never, ever been interested in -- and played with it for a few minutes.  Her message was clear:  "This is my house. These are my toys.  Everything you see is mine.  Everything you shall ever see in the future is mine."

 And so Molly has been fully accepted into the family.  All is well in McNabville.

Copyright © 2014 MJ Miller.  All rights reserved.  No part of this article, including photographs, may be reproduced without the express permission of the author.  Links to this page, however, may be freely shared.  Thank you for liking, pinning, +1'ing, forwarding, sharing and otherwise helping grow my audience.  Don't forget to sign up to follow by email!  And most of all, thank you for visiting!