Weeks ago, at the AlphaPoms and Pomskies kennel in Canton, Georgia, my wife, Cheryl and I stood outside a white playpen and marveled at the double litter of puppies sprawled drowsily across a ceramic tile floor.\u00a0 In the playpen, a small tray of milk and kibble, bunched up blankets, a medium crate, and in a corner, covering about a sixth of the floor, a litter box strewn with paper pellets, free of puppy business.\u00a0 No smells, no barks.\u00a0 The air punctuated, every so often, with soft yips, shivers, and shakes.\u00a0 Puppy dreamland.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Days ago, my wife had attended a wine-tasting, socially distanced I was assured, with a friend and two friends of the friend. A person\u2019s taste in wine can tell you a bit about them. A person\u2019s taste in dogs, too. Sipping a flight of California sauvignon blancs (of which my wife was disappointed – she, an unyielding devotee of New Zealand), one of the newly minted acquaintances, upon hearing my wife relay her excitement regarding the arrival of our new Pomsky puppy, spit into a decanter and said, \u201cOh gawd, a designer dog.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We were in a room just off the kennel owner\u2019s large, modern kitchen. In most homes, you could imagine this room a den. The owner, Lisa, blonde bob, elaborately tattooed, 40-ish, wore jeans and a black tank top with the kennel name in white script. Matching black tank on her daughter, who leaned against the wall, smiling, jean shorts rolled up her tattooed thighs. After dabbing a tiny puddle of clear urine with a crumpled tissue, Lisa said, \u201cTake off your shoes, get in, mingle, if you want.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
A designer dog is defined as the offspring of purebred parents of different breed. Designer dogs are bred for the desired traits of each parent: usually smaller, low shed, mild temperament, adorability. Most of us know the labradoodle is a cross between a poodle and Lab. A Pomsky comes courtesy of artificial insemination, a female husky by male Pomeranian. Blame the recent pup craze on the pandemic. Blame the designer dog craze on Australian Wally Conroy, father of the first labradoodle. It\u2019s ok, he blames himself too. He bred the very first on request for a low shed, guide dog. To his regret, he then encouraged the labradoodle\u2019s marketing. Wally is quoted only two years ago, saying some doodles are crazy and have health problems. Sexual reproduction is like a box of chocolates. First generation offspring have a 50\/50 chance of inheriting the less desirable traits.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I sat in the pen barefoot, enough room for twelve of us if Cheryl stood and I kept my knees up. Ten, four-week-old puppies were unperturbed, just fed, preferring slumber. One puppy was awake and \u2014 black coat, smaller, a girl, thin white stripe from crown to nose \u2014 licked and licked my ankle. Lisa’s daughter said, \u201cThat\u2019s Cookies and Cream.” Blue eyes. Cheryl cradled a boy, a fluff-ball named Rocky Road, party eyes (speckled blue and brown), gray and white mask like a bandit.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Critics opposed to designer dogs warn of the day when public appetite wanes. What happens to unwanted offspring then? Aren\u2019t there enough rescues waiting for adoption? At the wine-tasting, Cheryl\u2019s friend\u2019s friend said she was into boxer rescue. This was news to me, that rescue people could splinter by breed. “And what did you pay for the dog?” she’d asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Cheryl\u2019s down payment awarded us ninth pick of fifteen. By my math, there should\u2019ve been seven puppies to choose from, not ten. Somehow, we\u2019d moved up three, now picking sixth. Improved odds of getting what we want. A good thing, one would think.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Cheryl\u2019s brother-in-law, Scott, a Siberian husky and Alaskan malamute enthusiast, tells a story of Oreo, RIP, his husky escape artist who’d once traveled a gauntlet of home fencing to arrive at the neighbor\u2019s free-range chicken pen. It was a weekday. Scott is a police officer and got the call from Animal Control while on duty. He arrived at his neighbor\u2019s backyard in uniform to find a grisly scene: Under an innocent blue sky, Oreo had dispatched ten of the neighbor\u2019s twenty chickens to bloody chicken heaven. We can probably agree this is no way to go for any chicken, but at least they had a 50\/50 chance. And, I presume, a good life right up until that fateful day, that existential moment when the doomed birds caught a glimpse of the mission in those ruthless, cold husky eyes — those chickens had lived a peaceful, easy, hen-zen sort of life. (Of his neighbors, Scott felt bad, said, “They liked their eggs.”) Contrast that fowl end-of-life story to the dark, poorly ventilated, overcrowded pens, the restricted, overfed lives of those processed, neatly packaged chickens we purchase by the tasteless pound. As for Oreo, he was simply expressing an unvanquished genetic legacy. If a dog\u2019s life flashes before a dog\u2019s eyes, one might imagine, in Oreo\u2019s last moments, a most fond, lupine vision of the ultimate hunt, the great chicken massacre, possibly the greatest day of his otherwise domesticated, fenced-in life.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Cheryl’s dog worldview pointed to the future. She fell for one of the honey-coated pups, \u201cShe\u2019s so cute I can\u2019t stand it. Want to hold her?\u201d Cradling Vanilla Bean in my palm, I brought her to my nose. She smelled like a spice.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Pomeranians are smart, energetic, chewers. Pomerania is a region spanning northeastern Germany and northwestern Poland. Cheryl and I are childless. We own immaculate furniture imported from Germany and Poland.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Two puppies are blue merles. Cheryl knows because she\u2019s seen them on the AlphaPoms facebook page. They are not in the pen. Lisa said, \u201cEveryone wants the small Husky look and coloring.\u201d Cheryl kept asking what each puppy would look like grown. Aside from fur color, their puppy faces were indistinguishable.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Remember from biology class, Punnett squares? All you need to know is each parent contributes half the offspring’s DNA and that the genes get passed down in generally predictable ways. So, the ideal Pomsky, would receive the Pomeranian\u2019s sociability, smaller size, and intelligence and the Husky\u2019s coat, lupine snout, and lazy watchdog manner, i.e., little barking. But it\u2019s a crapshoot when you\u2019re looking at the whole litter. Statistically speaking, you\u2019re just as likely to get a Pomsky cursed with a Pomeranian’s unrelenting yappiness and cutesy lion\u2019s mane, crossed with a stubborn Husky’s penchant for digging and excessive shedding.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Luna, Luna, Luna. It\u2019s all I hear. Cheryl loves Luna. Probably carved in a heart shape on the pin oak in our yard. The neighbor\u2019s dog, Luna, has the Husky look and coloring. Small and adorable. Luna is the origin story of our puppy quest. Luna came from the prior litter at AlphaPoms. On our morning walks, it sits, alert blue eyes, at the end of the neighbor\u2019s driveway, tail-flapping, begging us to approach. Cheryl speaks to Luna in a baby voice. Luna drops her front legs, lies, rolls over. Cheryl rubs her belly. Luna, Luna, Luna. This is what I want, Cheryl says. Luna never barks. A dream dog.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Four weeks from bringing our puppy home, we have a problem. We cannot know what we have inherited. It could be a Luna, the silent, submissive beauty. Or it could be an Oreo, slaughterer of free-range chickens. But we\u2019re not snobs, we will love our dog in whatever flavor it comes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Won\u2019t we?<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
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