A Christmas Tail

Gus seemed determined to celebrate his eleventh Christmas in feline fashion. The gaily wrapped packages and the sweet smells were designed to intrigue kitties. He stalked the presents under the tree, poking with his paw to test their response. None struck back so he felt safe. He could toy with them to keep himself occupied. He batted at the ornaments and crawled under the tree to dig his claws into it. These were the comforting rituals of Christmas, even more so given the current situation in our home. As the eldest pet for the past three years it had been his reign, but unsteady lay the crown. His sister Daphney disdained his love bites unreasonably. And now there was the dog. Presumptuous and informal, the dog ignored all the formalities a cat expected.

For Hamilton this would be his first Christmas. The first time he would smell pine needles and feel the briskness of winter. He would be thrilled by his first snow fall and the sensation of pouncing into the drifts. He would not share Gus' hesitancy, but rather, grab the gifts under the tree with exuberance until scolded to drop them, retreating in momentary penitence.

Nuance versus abandon, Christmas brought out the distinction in both of them.

Unfortunately for Gus, life was taking an inevitable turn. When Hamilton arrived as an eight- week-old puppy, Gus did what he could to maintain his position and to keep Hamilton from insinuating himself into his world. A timely hiss and a strategic claw kept Hamilton at bay and left a scar on his nose as a reminder of who ruled the domain of our modest apartment.

Now six months had passed and Gus, all of twelve pounds , was faced with a behemoth fast growing into sixty-five pounds of sinew and blunder. Being only seven months old, Hamilton hadn't absorbed the import of their growing discrepancy in size. To him Gus was still this intimidating creature to be avoided if possible. Each time he slinked by Gus I imagined him rubbing the scar on his nose with his paw.

On Christmas Eve my wife and I returned home tired from a party and went to bed early, early even for fifty-year olds. Normally I would take Hamilton out for his evening walk but that night I was too exhausted. This left him with too much energy. He decided to attack the presents, grabbing one and chewing through the wrapping. Somehow, the bow from the gift attached itself to his tail. Prudent though Gus was , the sight of the bow on Hamilton's tail was more than he could handle. He pounced immediately causing Hamilton to cry out and spin in an attempt to shake Gus off his tail. The momentum of his spin and the weight of Gus in the air resulted in the Christmas tree in our living room hitting the wall, knocking ornaments to the floor and felling the tree onto the coffee table.

Groggily I rose and entered the living room to see the shambles of our Christmas present. Hamilton and Gus peered out from under the tree. In their mutual culpability there was a new born camaraderie. The look of guilt on their faces caused my anger to subside. Anyway I was too tired. I left them there with the fallen tree and the newly opened gifts.

In the early morning we came out and found the two of them sleeping on the couch, Hamilton on his back and Gus curled up beside him. It was Christmas Day.

Drive, He Said

Common, ordinary activities and amenities are unique challenges when you live in Manhattan. Except for people with seven figure incomes. Space of course is one example. Buying groceries and taking in the dry cleaning can test your mettle. People compensate by sacrificing economy for convenience. Also, you can have anything delivered, for a price, at virtually any time. Perhaps the most difficult challenge is getting from one place to another, particularly if you need to transport someone other than yourself.

The subway works well when you are just trying to get yourself around from home to work or play. It works less well when you are trying to transport a child as well. It is nearly nonfunctional when you are trying to transport a pet. A small dog or cat can be placed in a carrier and lugged on board. A dog Hamilton's size, about 65 pounds, is not welcome. Hence the popularity of lap dogs in Manhattan. Resolving logistical lifestyle issues is one reason people decamp for Brooklyn or the suburbs.

Being a magnet for clever, imaginative people and others willing to spend their money in unconventional ways, Manhattan is an incubator for the entrepreneurial spirit. This spirit has brought us the pet cab. Tired of flagging down a cab only to be passed by when the driver suddenly discovers a hygiene issue that your dog offends not evident by the interior of the cab? Manhattan has the solution -- call for a pet cab. They'll pick up your dog and take him to the vet, groomer or play date. Some are licensed, some are not. None are cheap. I can take a cab to Kennedy airport and it will cost me no more than the fee for taking Hamilton Uptown to Chelsea, a three mile trip.

We had to get Hamilton to his puppy training in Chelsea. The classes were scheduled for
7 p.m.. I couldn't walk him there after work, not enough time. Flagging down a yellow cab was to unreliable. Driving myself a virtual impossibility -- parking being the one other normal aspect of life as endangered in Manhattan as an affordable apartment. And, of course, the subway was verboten.

Hamilton needed a driver. I was searching the yellow pages when a colleague at work volunteered a name. His dog had developed a serious condition and needed to be transported to the vet several times a week. My colleague had been referred to Issac by a friend as a reliable person. Isaac was taking him and his dog to the vet two and three times a week. It was getting quite expensive along with the vet bills. As the dog's condition deteriorated Isaac began to only charge my friend for a one way trip. Then he stopped charging him all together. Finally, my friend's dog passed away. He never forgot Issac's generosity.

Issac seemed a sound recommendation. I scheduled him for our first training class. He was late. Well, not really late, just later than I would have liked. I am an anal person obsessed with punctuality. Tell me to be somewhere at a specific time, I'll get there 15 minutes ahead of schedule and just wait until the agreed to time. My wife hated this quality of mine. If we had a date at 8 p.m. I'd be at her door at exactly 8 p.m. Her custom was to view scheduled times as starting points. An 8 p.m. date meant starting to get ready at that time for the reasonably expected time of 9 p.m. There is an obligatory one-hour minimum grace period to any time frame in her view.

Issac split the difference. His business required him to be punctual, but his nature lead him to just in time planning. A nagging in his brain reminded him at the last possible moment that he had to be someplace and hell bent he would get there, not being inconvenienced by a few nitpicking traffic laws.

He pulled up at the exact time of our appointment and tumbled out of his car shaking our hands with both of his. Hamilton immediately adored him. As was now his habit with any human he loved he got down on his belly and squirmed his rear end towards Issac raising it for his approval. Being around dogs all day, Issac knew how to respond, patting Hamilton's rump.

When Issac opened the front car door Hamilton, with his innocent puppy instincts, jumped right in only to come face-to-face with Guinness, Issac's Scottish Terrier. As we discovered, Guinness normally rode shotgun for Issac during his rounds, tolerating the other dogs as most were relegated to the back of the SUV. Unfortunately, Hamilton had jumped into the front seat. Guinness immediately corrected this transgression by snapping at Hamilton's nose. Sensing the need for discretion, Hamilton jumped into the back seat and barked at Guinness as if to say, "Don't blame me. He told me to jump in."

Issac apologized and we sorted ourselves out with Guinness in his usual seat and my wife, myself and Hamilton in the back. Having now lost ten minutes we had 20 minutes to get to Chelsea at end of rush hour, at best a half hour drive. We grossly under estimated Issac. Going as much horizontal across lanes as vertical up the streets he maneuvered uptown. We saved time by taking the traffic signals on an advisory basis, with yellow obviously meaning accelerate in Issac's interpretation of the rules of the road.

Hamilton adored being in a car so he was oblivious to the bumper car ride we were taking. My wife was not though, and she looked at me with a stare that I knew all too well. A long discussion would follow tonight. We made it to the New York Dog Spa and Hotel with five minutes to spare, surely a land speed record for Manhattan.

Altogether Hamilton went to twelve training sessions and Issac managed to get us to each in one piece. We did experience many firsts, even for long time cab-riding Manhattan residents like ourselves, that included transversing a sidewalk to get around a nuisance intersection backup. Issac drove with the confidence of someone who, from experience, trusted his instincts and reflexes. The car seemed to be an appendage of his body. Our worry was not to become a body part.

Hamilton never doubted for a minute. Each time he wriggled with glee when he spied Issac, jumped eagerly into the car, gave Guinness a brief look, and settled onto my wife's lap, head jutting out the window. Maybe it was the innocence of youth, but we were learning to trust Hamilton's instincts about people. If he would have Issac as his driver, what choice did we have?

Training the Trainer

I am one of the most undisciplined people you could ever meet. No gratification is immediate enough for me. So naturally we adopted a dog who was my canine prototype. My wife figured that if Hamilton was ever to get his rambunctious behavior under control he and I would have to go to training. Late in my middle age I would need to learn patience and the necessity for rules and boundaries. And so would Hamilton. It would be a tall task for both of us and whoever would undertake to teach us.

My wife does her research. She spent several days searching the web and found Andrea Arden. She was well known in New York for her positive approach to dog training. Classes were offered at the New York Dog Spa and Hotel and at Biscuits and Bath in Manhattan. We signed up for evening classes at the New York Dog Spa and Hotel in Chelsea.

Hamilton was partially house trained but a poor walker. By this time he was nearly four months old and steps needed to be taken. I couldn't function much longer racing home from my office to get him out every couple of hours. Nor was the expected exercise that I was to get from his walks going to occur if each and every change in direction was a negotiation. I would pull and he would pull back, squatting on his haunches.

I am a large person but with Hamilton's rate of growth I would soon be losing these battles of will. His pulling advantage was increased by our use of a harness that clipped the leash on his back rather than his collar. Using just a collar proved impossible. He would pull against it until he choked himself. I was getting nasty looks from people as a result. So we went for the harness.

School started for Hamilton and me right after Labor Day ( my wife came along to monitor our performance ). I was 55 years old and reliving the most miserable moments of my life, the end of summer and the return to school. Whether it was elementary or high school, it always started the Wednesday after Labor Day, making the Tuesday in between the most depressing day of the year. It took college to get me to look forward to the turning of the leaves. Even so, to this day, I can't completely shake the gloom I feel during the fall weather.

To Hamilton gloom is the result of not getting his toys to play with or the treat he desires. Going to school was a thrill. First there was the ride in the pet cab ( more on this in a later post ), then there was the excitement of going into the Dog Spa with it smells and other dogs being boarded or groomed. He is a highly social dog. In his class there were dogs of various sizes. The one characteristic they all shared was that they were under six months old. I was in a room with a dozen frolicking, yapping, cosseted puppies.

These are the dogs of Manhattan. They are chauffeured to private school, indulged with toys and activities and many are provided nannies in the form of dog walkers, groomers and day care centers. It was a life that my dog Rusty on the South Side of Chicago could never have imagined. Hamilton embraced this world. Originally saved from a kill shelter in West Virginia by a rescue society from New Jersey, he now had a driver, a tutor and dog food made from human grade ingredients, and many new playmates. He was delighted.

Our instructor lined us up around the room and explained the principles of positive, dog-friendly training: rewarding good behaviors, preventive management and using gentle methods to teach. Our lessons took place over six weeks. Emphasis was on how we as owners needed to understand our dogs needs and behaviors and to use kindness and food or treats to reward desired behaviors rather than violence and anger to punish bad behaviors. The result with Hamilton is that we now have, by our friends and neighbors admission, a mostly well behaved and, most importantly, happy dog. He is house trained, walks calmly beside me, barks only at appropriate times, is not possessive of food or toys and almost always ( no one's perfect ) leaves discarded food and junk alone when commanded to do so on our walks. He sits in the elevator and lobby and at the curb on his own. He sits, stays, comes, lies down and rolls over when asked. If he is being too rambunctious all we need to do is tell him to "settle down" and he stops the offending behavior and lies down ( at least briefly).

It was the instructor at the Dog Spa that recommended we use the Easy Walk harness to teach Hamilton how to walk. We were running out of ideas. We tried a Gentle Leader and a Halti but he hated having the straps around his muzzle. He would stubbornly sit and refuse to move. The Easy Walk fit around his back like most harnesses but the leash clipped to the strap across his chest instead of his back. This leash placement shifted the leverage to me and I was able to guide him where to go rather than having him pull me.

The instructor also recommended we use a clicker to signal a reward each time he walked by my side rather than running ahead of us. Click, and he received a treat if he stayed by my side. Run ahead, no click, no treat. Very Pavlovian.

My wife points out that she's been using Pavlovian training on me for many years. She thought I needed some remedial help so we took Hamilton to additional puppy training at the Murray Hill location of Biscuits and Bath. From that instructor we learned about tethering as a way to dissuade Hamilton from misbehaving. Saying " Oh no, Hamilton", putting him on his leash and placing the leash on a door knob to inhibit his movement and remove him from our presence. This proved so effective that even though he is now full grown and would be hard to tie down in our apartment, all we need to do is show him his leash or say " Oh no, Hamilton", and he immediately stops his offending behavior and settles down on his own.

To contact Andrea Arden about her dog training seminars and classes use www.manhattandogtraining.com. This is an unsolicited recommendation. I've never met her personally. I am just a very satisfied customer. And if you should be walking in Manhattan and come across a dog named Hamilton you will see why. OK- he does still jump on people when he's excited, but we never expected perfection. After all, look at me.

The Curse of Old Yeller

Looking back I can't blame my parents. After all Old Yeller was a Walt Disney movie. It was about a courageous dog that helped a frontier family survive in the Wild West. At least that was what the movie advertisements implied. And this was 1957 before there were any worries about language and violence being in movies supposedly made for families. Movies were so safe that if a child happened to view a movie targeted to adults the only consequence would be utter boredom.

With Hamilton on his back, belly exposed, sleeping between my wife and I, I found myself often thinking about Old Yeller.I promised myself I would not be caught by surprise again.

As the song went, "Old Yeller was the best doggone dog in the West." Adding to his appeal to me he was a mutt, a dog much more like the dogs we had in my neighborhood. I was thrilled to see the promotions for the movie at the show, as we called our local movie theater. The problem was that this was in the era of limited movie releases. Popular movies were shown downtown first and then slowly made their way to the local theaters. I feared Old Yeller would die of old age before his adventures came to our local Peoples movie theater. I reconciled myself with adapting the story to my imagined adventures with my own dog, Rusty, " The best doggone dog on the South Side" of Chicago.

Based on what I knew from the promotions I created all sorts of triumphant adventures where Rusty and I fought off Indians invaders, pirates and lions and tigers. Rusty sat patiently by my side while I manipulated my toy soldiers and animals to tell our courageous stories.

Finally, Old Yeller arrived at the Peoples Theater. With my allowance of $1.00 I could get a ticket and popcorn and a Coke. My mother had no hesitation letting me go to the show for the afternoon. After lunch I would often walk to the theater and return home at 5 p.m. giving her and my father four glorious hours of privacy.

I went to see Old Yeller by myself. My friends were not interested. I didn't mind. I actually preferred to go to the show by myself. My friends would always want to talk during the movie or leave early. I always wanted to catch every word so that I could replay the movie later and make my own modifications to improve the story. I would always provide myself with heroic parts although I was careful not to usurp my heroes. I wanted to be their trusted companion, someone they could depend on in a jam.

Before I bought my ticket I always stopped at the Walgreen's across the street from the theater. I could get a big plastic bag of popcorn for the same price that the theater charged for a small box. The bag of popcorn was so large that after placing it on my lap I would initially have to look around it to see the movie screen.

That afternoon I felt lucky. There were both a Donald Duck and a Goofy cartoon. When Old Yeller started I sang my revised theme song under my breath, " Rusty was a puppy, a rough and ready puppy, best doggone dog on the South Side.". I need not have worried. There were a surprising number of empty seats around me. I guessed people had lost patience with Old Yeller's arrival.

Much to my delight Old Yeller enters the picture fairly early, chasing a rabbit onto the farm of Travis, my fictional counterpart. He was the eldest son of the farm family who would adopt Old Yeller. Old Yeller immediately shows his rapscallion character by stealing some meat from the family. Later, he shows his meddle by not stealing meat when tested by Travis. And he also shows his courage by saving the annoying little brother, Arliss, from a grizzly bear and Travis from a Wild Boar herd.

These exploits win Travis and his family over. Now he sleeps inside with them and has become their trusted pet and guardian. No sooner does this welcome turn of events occur when the specter of hydrophobia arrives. I didn't have a clue what that was but the script made it sound terrible, a form of madness, demonstrated by foam seeping from the mouth. No worry, Old Yeller was smart enough to stay away from anyone with excess drool coming from their mouths. And if Travis or pain-in-the-ass Arliss were in danger Old Yeller would save them. Surely this was the point of the movie. The good dog saves the family and is rewarded with their love. I knew this moral from my vast experience watching such heroic dogs as Lassie and Rin Tin Tin on television. Valor and bravery always prevailed whether from avalanches, cave ins, floods or wild beasts. Old Yeller surely demonstrated he was as true as they were.

I began to have some foreboding. Visually the movie seemed to be getting darker. Was I imagining this or did the screen suddenly have a veil drop in front of it so the scenes looked murkier?

Old Yeller confronts a wolf threatening his adopted family. The wolf is drooling. Old Yeller engages the wolf in battle. Travis comes out and shoots the wolf. Old Yeller is injured. Should he be put out of his misery?

Wait a minute! Put out of his misery? This doesn't happen to Lassie. Rin Tin Tin dodges arrows and rifle shots and Old Yeller can't fight off a rabid wolf? This can't be. He'll recover. There will be more glorious adventures. His own television show must be in the works, " Here Yeller, come back Yeller, best doggone dog in the West."

Travis, wily as ever, comes up with another test. They lock Old Yeller in the barn to see how he fares. This looks good. See he's getting better. Travis visits him one night. Not so good. Yeller snarls at him. He seems to be transformed into some other creature. Stupid Arliss almost accidentally releases the rabid Yeller. Travis has a rifle. He can't wait any longer.

I sink in my seat holding my popcorn bag in front of me. I hear a shot from the screen. The rest of the movie is a blur. There are some puppies. One is yellow - Little Yeller. I don't care. I throw my popcorn in the garbage and walk home stunned. I hear my mother ask me how the movie was. I go to my room and lie on the bed and call for Rusty.

Many nights looking at Hamilton lying on the bed I relive that afternoon. Sometimes I see it unfold completely. Other nights I hear the rifle shot amidst other thoughts. I won't be able to sleep for awhile. I want to pet him but I don't want to wake him.

Going to the Mattresses

My father was an animal person, particularly with regard to dogs. He was known almost to his dying day for adopting strays. Even strays that were leery of humans would follow him and attach themselves to his "adopted" pack. You would never know how many dogs you would find in the yard or the house. My mother was the daughter of a farmer who grew up with a practical approach to animals, pets or otherwise. They were either a food source or performed a task. She did not have any sentimental illusions even towards the household pets.

The one attitude they both shared was that animals belonged on the floor. No pet of ours was allowed on the furniture. Furniture was expensive. We were a blue collar family. What we had was dear. My parents could not afford to be forgiving towards tears, scratches and hair over everything.

The ultimate test of my ingrained attitude was marrying a cat person. The only thing harder than keeping a cat from climbing the shelves and off of the furniture was to herd it. With Sylvan and Frisky, the cats from our newlywed years, there were several accidents which lead to temper tantrums by me and admonishment from my wife to grow up. Teaching me maturity was one of my wife's early challenges. There is still some debate as to how successful she has been.

Eventually I resigned myself to the inevitable natural tendencies of a feline and learned to live with their crawling and climbing, scratching and shedding.
With Hamilton I was determined to be more strict. I had my heritage to defend. No dog on the couch or bed. No leaning on the table with his front paws. Hamilton would be disciplined. He would accept his boundaries and be happy for it. After all I was the master, the Pack Leader.

To this end I embraced the philosophy of the crate. The crate would be a physical representation of the household rules. And Hamilton would find comfort and solace from its implied limitations on his behavior. To reinforce its intent we would keep it in the living room away from us. Hamilton would have a safe, secure environment to sleep in without us in the room. He would develop confidence and independence. After all his heritage was to be a guard dog, a hunter, a fighter. His was a mix of German Shepherd and Terrier -- stoic, brave warriors.

Then again you can't expect too much from a ten-week old puppy. Each night Hamilton would whimper in his crate full of chew toys, blankets and a separate velour-covered, puppy-sized bed. Sleeping through such pitiful pleading was a challenge. And there was the complication of differentiating the apprehensive whimpering from the I have to go variety.

After three nights of sleep deprivation I consulted with my wife, always the sensible one, and agreed the best approach would be a temporary relocation of the crate to the bedroom where he would be comforted knowing we were nearby. The whimpering was surprisingly loud now. And then there was Gus.

Since Hamilton's arrival our two cats had retreated to the bedroom. This was comfortable territory for Daphne, our shy runt. For Gus it represented a strategic maneuver until he could assess the situation. It was his reign and now it was invaded by this strange sniveling creature that smelled to him like a walking potty box. Now his bedroom refuge was invaded by Hamilton and his crate. Where is a cat to turn?

He decided to assess the situation closer. He surreptitiously approached the crate from the side. The crate was designed to provide intimacy for the dog so it was enclosed on three sides with only the front gate providing an opening for viewing. Coming from the blind side Gus pulled his head around to the front gate. Hamilton must of looked worse than Gus could possibly have imagined. He arched his back. His fur and tail stood on end as if they had been starched.

The hiss initially confused Hamilton. It was probably the first he had ever heard. He cocked his head behind the gate and seemed to be attempting to decipher a foreign language. You could almost visualize Hamilton's brain cells calculating the intent of the tones and modulations of Gus's voice. He tried to sniff Gus with his nose through the gate. The scratch across his nose happened so quickly that Hamilton didn't register the pain initially. Then there was a loud yelp and Hamilton retreated to the back of the crate.

Now the whimpering became louder and we also had Gus all agitated, jumping from bed to table to the top of the crate hissing and clawing. I decided to get dressed and take Hamilton out for a walk. It was 2 A.M.

That weekend was Hamilton's first at our country home. We have a small cottage on a lake near the Delaware Water Gap in western New Jersey. It is our retreat from Manhattan and the pressure cooker of our jobs.

Initially Hamilton was thrilled with his new surroundings. Fresh scents, plenty of room to play and new nooks and crannies to investigate. Then came the night. The bedroom did not have room for the crate so we placed it on the porch which is enclosed with a door to the house that we keep open in the summer. It was a beautiful August night. Nothing stirred, not even a quiet summer breeze. The quiet was soon shattered by Hamilton's load whimpering. Sounds were amplified by the stillness and the calmness of the lake's glimmering surface and we knew his cries were reverberating around the lake.

That's when we gave in. My wife padded out to the porch and opened the crate door. As she turned back a streak of fur broke between her legs through the doorway and into the bedroom. I looked at Hamilton's pleading face and those beguiling brown eyes and knew I was lost. I lifted him up and he snuggled onto the pillows. As my wife got back into bed there he lay between us his eyes already closed.

We had crossed the line. As I looked at the now empty crate I knew there was no turning back. We had breached the historical legacy that had guided my family for generations, two anyway. No longer would any dog in our family be limited to an exclusively terrestrial existence. Hamilton had broken the barrier.

Meanwhile, I noticed Gus was cautiously creeping into the crate.

A Puppy That Never Sleeps

If you live in one of Manhattan's ubiquitous high rise apartment buildings and you want to get to know your neighbors better housebreak a puppy. A ten week old will give you ample opportunity to see your neighbors at all hours and in various states of ensemble. The digestive process of a puppy requires potty breaks at minimum every two hours. Often more frequently. This means being prepared to take your puppy out at the break of dawn, throughout the day and deep into the night. If New York is the city that never sleeps, you've become one of the nighthawks.

My wife, taking a leaf from my college roommate's, " If you named the pet you owned it," decreed that it was my responsibility to housebreak Hamilton. To be fair there was also the practical consideration that my office was near our apartment while hers was uptown. Of course at night we were in the same bed, but I slept closer to the door. And one of the reasons we adopted Hamilton was to motivate me to get some exercise with daily walks.

The housebreaking started during the period when we had his crate in the living room so he would develop independence. According to the experts the crate would reinforce his sense of identity and would be his sanctuary. He would never soil it so it would help with housebreaking as well. The night from hell which my wife relives ad naseum put the lie to that latter aspect of the theory. The other aspect of the theory was to use positive reinforcement by rewarding your puppy with a treat each time he relieved himself outside. Eventually he would get the idea and you could substitute praise for the treats. One look in Hamilton's eyes as he looked at me with anticipation for doing the right thing showed me that would never happen.

Having the crate in the living room meant that he needed to whimper to let me know when he needed to go out. If i didn't respond immediately my wife kicked me in the back and I would stumble out of the bed and struggle into my clothes. Soon I would sleep with my pants on rather than sleepily pull them on and risk breaking my neck. At least we had the good fortune of adopting in the summer. Imagine standing outside at three in the morning in a January of snow, wind and sleet with your little puppy asking, no begging him, to be quick (his code words for get it done already).

Speed is of the essence. Once a puppy feels the urge to go the dam is opening fast. And you never know from what end. An apartment poses a particular challenge since getting outside requires maneuvering through your own hallway, the elevator, past the doorman always alert for accidents, through the revolving door and finally outside. I estimated that Hamilton's intestinal fortitude at ten weeks old allowed at most five minutes for this exercise. And that was five minutes with a lot more of the give than the take.

I decided that holding him until he was outside was the best approach to avoide any accidents in the elevator or the lobby in front of the disapproving doorman. But accidents do happen. So I began to hold him slightly away from my body facing me. I would coo at him to distract him, " How's my baby Hamilton. How's my baby boy" , and run through the lobby much to the amusement of the omnipresent doorman. By my count we only had four accidents over the first week and one of those I shouldn't count as the doorman was mercifully away from his post for once, probably going to the bathroom himself.

During his first week Hamilton barely made it outside the front door. At night this wasn't too much of a problem. During the day we had to find our place among the thousands of office workers, tourists and neighbors who always seem to stream by our apartment's door. Hamilton decided the grate in front of the building was the best place to go which made clean up easier. I wouldn't recommend trying to retrieve your keys, though, if they should ever fall through the bars.

By the second week his control was getting better and he was able to make it across the street to the plaza of the office building that blocks any significant sunlight from reaching the inside of the apartments in our building. Call it Hamilton's revenge for this affront to our quality of life as he took quickly to the side of the building that faced a relatively quieter side street. Perplexed maintenance people from the office building would occasionally watch our regular routine. And Hamilton was nothing if not regular. Trying to be a good neighbor I was meticulous in cleaning up, even using paper towels if necessary for residue.

The financial district of Manhattan has become highly residential. It is no longer uncommon to see Wall Street financiers racing to meetings in bespoken suits cheek-by-jowl with mothers pushing perambulators and walking dogs and leading children with lunch boxes and book bags to school. We have a school bus stop in front of our building as if we lived down a country lane in Iowa. Ultimately, the maintenance people took Hamilton's regular visits in stride, once even lending me a dust bin when I had forgotten his potty clean-up bags.

By the third week Hamilton was triumphing. He needed to go out less and once outside he developed the confidence to be fussy and take his time to find just the right spot. And Hamilton is fussy. He sniffs around, gives you a feigned leg lift as a tease and then he is off, nose down, looking for a better spot. " Be quick," could be heard through out the caverns of Wall Street. We would circle the office building aimlessly like abandoned satellites in space trying to signal home: B-E Q-U-I-C-K! B-E Q-U-I-C-K! B-E Q-U-I-C-K!

It was late at night that I realized that many of my neighbors were living lives quite different from ours. As I stood there sleepily mumbling " Be quick" taxis, limos and town cars were disgorging neighbors in front of our building, usually dressed to the nines. Couples came home nearer midnight. Single people nearer dawn. So many enjoying the glamour and thrills of the city that never sleeps, I would think.

Then I would say " Be quick" and Hamilton would. I'd give him his treat and he'd look at me with gratitude and pride. I was never happier.

A Rose by Any Other Name

My wife is a wise person. She assesses those things that are important and those things that are not and leaves the latter to me. For example, with our pets she lets me take the lead in providing them with names while she concentrates on their health and nutritional needs. She saw no reason that we should deviate from this successful strategy with our new puppy.

I do have a long resume in naming pets. As a child I named all my pets. There were actually two. Buster was my first dog. I named him after a children's program character I was enraptured with at the time. Buster was a ratter that my father acquired for us to keep our house free from the rats. The rats migrated down the alleys from the old Union Stock Yards in Chicago to the homes of people like us who lived nearby. The problem was that dogs that are hunters and children don't mix. Inevitably he bit me when I made the mistake of trying to pet him while he was eating. Good bye Buster.

Rusty came next. She was the pet that helped me through adolescence, puberty and early adulthood. She was a rust colored collie mix - okay I wasn't too original - that a neighbor gave to me because I expressed my admiration for how attractive she was. She was literally handed to me on the street. Bringing her home didn't make my mother's day after the Buster experience but my father interceded. Rusty saw me through many trying times and lived to be fifteen years old. She died while I was away at college. Her passing seemed to be a right of passage.

In college my roommate brought two cats from the family farm, a young male and a kitten. This was curious since our apartment lease did not allow pets. Fortunately, cats are easier to hide as long as you keep the litter box clean. Once again it fell to me to name them. My roommate had better things to do like hang out at the tavern and run up a big bar tab. The older one I named Robespierre because I thought it showed my recently acquired erudition. Falling back on my Rusty strategy, the little kitten I named Whiskers for obvious reasons. My roommate flunked out and left me with the cats. Where he came from it seems there was a rule that he failed to inform me about that if you named the animals you kept them. Ultimately my girl friend, now wife, took them home and that is where they lived out their lives.

It was a crowded home for Robespierre and Whiskers as my wife had a cat of her own back home, Nicki. A name she chose without my help. My wife's parents believed in letting the cats outside to do what cats do. Consequently, Nicki became pregnant the same year we graduated from college and were married. There were four kittens in the litter. I named them Frisky, a tortoise-shell, Misty, a long-haired grey cat, Urban, a long-haired black cat and Sylvan, a Maine Coon like cat. Frisky was a playful kitten and the first tortoise-shell cat I had ever seen. Misty's fur had the light airy color of a summer's mist. Sylvan's name was chosen because it reflected my wife's rural background. I chose Urban because he and Sylvan were the two males and I thought it clever to contrast the two since I was the city boy. Remember, I was a recent college graduate.

We found homes for Misty and Urban and my wife and I took Frisky and Sylvan into our first home as newlyweds. There they stayed with us for seventeen years. Ultimately Sylvan died from complications from an operation for a tumor on his tail. Frisky seemed to mourn herself to death and suffered a stroke four months later. We had to put her to sleep.

Next came Woodrow. He was another Maine Coon like cat that we adopted from our veterinarian. At the time we were enamored with the television series Lonesome Dove. Woodrow McCall was my favorite character. You can surmise the rest.

With both of us working little Woodrow was very lonely in our apartment. We decided to get him some "pets". Our vet had two kittens available. Augustus and Daphne came into our lives. Augustus, aka Gus, was of course the compliment to Woodrow from Lonesome Dove. Daphne's name was meant to be ironic. She was a runt with a deformed rear and a hernia on her stomach. The vet was surprised we would adopt her. It was clear to us though that she and her brother were very close. We had always regretted not having taken all four of Nicki's kittens. So what the heck. Three cats were no more trouble than two, we hoped.

Woodrow developed a heart condition and passed away from the stress that we experienced after September 11th and the resulting displacement. He was nine at the time. The vet said that if it was any consolation he probably would not have lived much longer. It wasn't.

Gus and Daphne were eleven years old when Hamilton came into their lives. Which brings me to why the name Hamilton? First, I hate cutesy names for animals. No Spot, Rover, Fluffy or heaven forbid Tiger. As it happened when we adopted our puppy I was reading a biography of Alexander Hamilton. The revolutionary era is a historical period I've always been interested in. More serendipitously our apartment is only a few blocks from his grave in the Trinity Church historical cemetery. I am a great believer in serendipity. I met my wife serendipitously at college, of which I attended due to the serendipitous factor that my aunt's best friend's daughter had attended there and enjoyed the experience. The chain is nearly endless. Plus Hamilton is a serious name, one that no one would bestow lightly.

When your dog is named Hamilton it reinforces to people that this is a dog to whom much is given and much is expected. He is a dog who is loved and respected as a thinking, feeling, caring animal enriching our lives.

Buyers Remorse ( Our Version)

Well, adopting a dog didn't quite go the way we expected. No quiet, organized selection process. No peaceful, relaxing dinner where we could enjoy our new status of dog owners discussing possible names and plans for our new pet. No pleasant anticipation of driving out to pick him up and bring him back to his new home filled with toys and a warm, welcoming crate that we prepared with blankets and chews. What we had was a hyperventilating puppy in a dented carrying case with rusty hinges that kept the case stuck closed.

Driving back to the city from the rescue shelter we made some quick calculations. We took Route 22 back hoping to run into a pet store before they all closed. It was nearly 8 P.M. so we were running out of time. The first store we came to turned out to be a pet store in name only. It was rather a retailer of fish and bird supplies. However, they knew of a Pet Smart store up the road. We made it there with minutes to spare.

My wife went in and I did my best to keep the puppy calm in the car. I opened the crate door with some effort, not having any three-in-one oil for the hinges. Tiger was curled up in a ball and seemed to be shaking. I rubbed behind his ears. Shouldn't he be happy, I thought. We are saving him, providing him a comfortable home instead of living in a kennel in nowhere New Jersey. Given, the dog's perspective was marred by his pack instincts. Who else but a dog would enjoy being trampled on a regular basis?

Tiger tentatively licked my hand and looked at me with those big brown eyes. First thing we're changing your name, I thought. You are getting a new start. My wife knocked on the glass of the back gate of our SUV. She had a shopping cart full of food, leashes, collars , toys, chews, potty training pads and a portable crate which would be easy for us to assemble. It was $400 worth of dog supplies. So our life together began.

When we arrived at our apartment the doorman was taken aback. My wife carried the dog in and I lugged the supplies. Tiger continued to whimper . I smiled at the doorman as we entered the elevator.

Gus did not welcome us home with open paws. But he was appropriately cautious and stayed out of our way. Daphne did what she always did when she was concerned or frightened. She headed for the bedroom and her safe place under the bed.

We set up the crate in the living room. Our premise was that eventually he needed to be separated from us at night so he would develop confidence and independence. His crate, according to all the dog experts, would be his safe haven that he would protect and respect even to the point of avoiding soiling it at nearly all costs of personal comfort.

That first night I volunteered to sleep with him in the living room just to get him acclimated to his new home. One or two nights and then he could be left alone We were confident in the wisdom of the experts. That first night he was so stressed out that he fell asleep immediately and was out until dawn. On the couch I slept fitfully but felt remarkably sanguine. I did not realize that the night from hell was almost upon us. It was a night my wife would never forget as she had agreed to sleep with Tiger in the living room.

The day was uneventful. I went to work and my wife stayed home with the puppy. He ate voraciously and amply used his potty pads. She took him out nearly every hour but the urge never manifested itself until he got back into the apartment. I came home at lunch and tried myself to get him to use the outside. No chance.

That evening was more of the same. Finally I went to sleep and my wife curled up on the couch with a book and a blanket. I slept soundly after the last night of restlessness.

It is hard to describe what happens to a puppy's intestinal system after two days of stress and eating new food for the first time. I can only attest that respect for the crate as den goes out the window. According to my wife you would never believe that a little puppy could have so much of anything inside of him. It was a constant flow all night. No sooner did she clean up one mess and he would make another. Being the stoic that she is she never once woke me up. She went through all the potty training pads, paper towels and newspapers that we had. She then scrounged newspaper from the hallway recycling bin. She had to visit several floors to get enough supply. The 24-hour supermarket delivered more paper towels. I never heard him come to the door.

" You'd sleep through anything," she complained.

" You could have woken me," I said sheepishly, grateful that she hadn't.

" Tomorrow we get serious about house breaking," she threatened, more to me I feared than to the puppy.

To the Rescue

"You need to look at this puppy I found on Petfinder," my wife said. " His name is Tiger."

Having decided to get a dog my wife took it as her mission to search out the various rescue services to find a likely dog for adoption. She saw this dog as the best hope to get me off the sofa and out doing regular exercise to get my weight and blood pressure under control. As my spouse for over 30 years she knew my resileance and dedication once I send myself off on a course of action. The issue is to get me sent off. Procrastination is also one of my many vices.

I sat at the computer and looked at the picture posted by the NJ Collie Rescue & Referral organization in Whitehouse New Jersey. Staring at me were these two large brown eyes centered in a halo of fur. The puppy had a black nose and floppy ears and an innocent look that only a baby could present to the world. From the picture it was puzzling to determine why the dog was given such an unusual name as Tiger.

My hesitations disappeared in an instant. "That's the one," I exclaimed." Let's contact them right away."

Impulsiveness is another one of my endearing traits. Would you be surprised that I was a Gemini? I watched intently as my wife sent an e-mail to the people in Whitehouse.

It took a day for them to respond. We called the number they sent and filled out the questionnaire sent to us. I liked the fact that they were being careful in determining who they were dealing with for the adoption. I don't know what the passing grade is for approval but within another day we were okayed and we made arrangements to visit the shelter and check out Tiger. If we should adopt there would be a $200 fee.

We planned a drive out midweek. There was a restaurant near Whitehouse we wanted to try so we thought we would visit the shelter, decide if we wanted Tiger, make arrangements to pick him up the following Saturday and then have a celebratory dinner at the The Ryland Inn.

Wednesday we left early from work for our a leisurely drive out to the country to check out our prospective dog and then our pleasant meal before returning to the city. We would have a few days to get the apartment organized with a crate, dog food and bowls and a nice selection of toys for the new puppy. Maybe I'd have enough time to have another discussion with Gus. A very relaxing, civilized approach to the adoption of our first dog.

Leaving the interstate we had no difficulty finding the shelter. It was actually a single family home at the end of a quiet, narrow country road with a large cyclone fence surrounding the backyard. The yard itself was also divided by an additional cyclone fence which divided the yard into a private living area and a dog habitat with kennels and a pack of collies, shepherds and mixes running up and down, over stimulated by our arrival and the game they were also playing, a form of pick on the littlest guy who happened to be Tiger. He had grown since his picture had been posted on Pet Finder but we still easily recognized him. He was about eight weeks old. The swarm of dogs ran over him and just as he bounced up and got his balance back they would run over him again. Tiger was thrilled. He barked after each stampede left him rolling and seemed to be inviting more of the same. The older female dogs kept grabbing his muzzle to correct his over-exurberance. He looked up at them joyously.

Vicki came up to us and introduced herself. She was the founder of the NJ Collie Rescue and Referral organization. She had travelled to West Virginia to rescue Tiger and his mother from a " kill " shelter. It seems she traveled up and down the East Coast saving dogs. Her organization was funded by donations and the fees she charged for adopting dogs from the shelter.

" it's too bad you weren't here earlier," she said. " Tiger's mother was just adopted a few days ago. She was a two year old Sheperd mix." It seems the definition of Collie was quite broad from the point of view of rescue, gratefully so.

She lead us towards Tiger. The other dogs parted warily as we came closer. Tiger stood his ground, half crouched, tail wagging.

I placed my hand out for him to smell, all the books tell you to do this, and he licked it. I reached down and petted him. He continued to lick my hand. I rolled him over on his back; this was meant to tell us if he would be aggressive or not. If he stayed on his back he was more passive or Beta. If he struggled and tried to right himself immediately he was more aggressive or Alpha. Tiger did neither. Instead he rolled on his side and looked up with big brown eyes and the expectation of some reward. Maybe he was hoping to be trampled again.

It was the eyes that got to me. They were deep brown, liquid and so pure looking. I was reminded of the moment I fell in love with my wife. Her eyes were light blue, the color of opals and once I looked into them I was committed. I wanted to bathe in them forever, just as I was at that moment when she looked up at me and smiled. Tiger's eyes also enveloped you with purity and trust. You wanted to love him because you could see love mirrored back at you. And he was beautiful with a medium brown brindle coat. Calling him Tiger was like calling a Dalmation Spot.

My wife and I didn't even speak. We just looked at each other and smiled. I reached for my checkbook. That's when we received the first of many surprises we have experienced since becoming dog owners. It seems buyers remorse is rampant in dog adoption. Even people who leave money don't come back for the dog they promised to adopt. Meanwhile checks are stopped before they can be cashed. If we wanted Tiger we had to take him now or there would be no promises about his availability on Saturday.

What choice did we have? A beat up old crate was found and Tiger was corralled and placed into it before he knew what was happening to him. Check provided, hands shook and we were off with a new puppy cradled between us in the front seat, a tiny whimper coming from inside the crate.

Explaining Hamilton ( the dog) to Gus ( the cat)

Anyone who has a cat for a pet is familiar with the canard that cats are the superior species to us humans. Having married a cat person and consequently having had several cats as pets I can provide first hand validation of this curious phenomena of nature. Call it God's joke. Actually I think our cats view our household as a circus with the cats as the ringmasters, my wife and I as the trained acts and our dog as the clown.

At the time we were planning to adopt Hamilton our cat household consisted of two black & white cats we had adopted from the Cat Practice in Chelsea several years ago. They had been adopted to be companions for our Maine Coon mix whom we had also adopted from the Cat Practice. Unfortunately Woodrow, the Maine Coon mix, had passed away before we brought Hamilton into our lives. The other two cats, Augustus ( aka Gus) and Daphne had never known any housemates other than their own species. OK, we have fish too, but the cats don't even notice them, which is a separate story.

When Woodrow was alive he ruled the roost. We joked that it was his reign. He was the ruler of our pride. Fortunately Woodrow was a benevolent ruler who shared his food and treats, at least a little, and adored Gus, his best friend. After Woodrow died, by birth order as we knew it, we decided that we had now entered the reign of Augustus. Augustus was more tyrannical. Consequently, Daphne finally rebelled and began to shun Gus, hissing anytime he came anywhere near her space which in our modest apartment was frequent.

We thought Gus would embrace having a new friend, even a dog friend. He sincerely seemed lonely without Woodrow. I actually took time to try to explain this to Gus, reaffirming the circus analogy. He in turn was much more interested in the treats I was feeding him. I presumed a dog was too much of an abstraction for him and he would better grasp the situation when we brought Hamilton home from the shelter. Grasp it he did and he did not like it. What good was it to be ruler if the subjects can willy nilly interject a smelly, whining clump of fur into his world. Already his sister won't tolerate him, his best friend has disappeared and now he has a creature he cannot understand or communicate with who, heaven forbid, might be intending to use the litter box. No worry there of course with a puppy.

If there was one miscalculation in our adopting Hamilton, the relationship between him and Gus would be it.

My Sweet Boy Hamilton

Hamilton is a German Shepherd mix that has changed my life in immeasurable ways. For many years I thought dog ownership and city life were incompatible. I persisted in this belief despite all evidence to the contrary. Daily my neighbors and friends were walking dogs, sharing the elevator of our building and generally flaunting their dog life style in front of me. Still I persisted in my view that city raised dogs were an abomination against the natural order. Cats, now those were pets best suited to city living. Plus my wife was a cat person. It was all too easy.

How could I subject a dog to a life of cramped apartments, elevator rides and sidewalk perambulating when everyone knows a dog needs a yard to run in and fields to play in. I guess the thousands of dog owners in Manhattan did not agree me. Granted some of their dogs were not the type I could see myself strolling down the street with. I am very tall and my weight fluctuates to great degrees. It would be quite a site to see me walking down the street trailing some lap dog behind me.

It was my size that finally tipped the scale, literally, to getting a dog. My doctor finally had seen enough regarding my living habits and told me in no uncertain terms that I had to reform my self away from the kitchen table and into the gym. I knew that was a hopeless task. I have no patience for running on treadmills or twisting and turning in sweaty gyms watching the clock to determine if I had put in enough time to leave with out being embarrassed by the trainer and the fitness fanatics.

No, a dog would be the answer. I would walk him several times a day and get my much needed exercise doing something useful. To salve my guilty conscious for subjecting the poor creature to a life of city living misery I would make sure the walks would be extensive. Anyway I grew up with a beloved family dog. It was time to return to my rightful place in the human, animal continuum. A dog person I was and a dog person I would be again. My wife and the cats would have to adjust.

Naturally my wife was thrilled. She had always wanted to have a dog she said while diplomatically not mentioning the ancillary benefit of the dog forcing me to get some exercise. So we began our research. This was a common theme for us. Having decided on an approach or decision we always tried to understand the subject or task we had undertaken inside out.

What we were not prepared for was the depth and extent of the subculture we would become a part of as dog owners in the city. Neighbors who we had never spoken to became friendly. We learned about play dates, dog walkers, day care and pet cabs. Even more interesting we also learned about the quirky people who own dogs, love them and participate in the unique dog world that is the city.

My wife and I love our dog, maybe to a degree that some people could never understand. We have restructured our lives around his needs and to maximize our experience of the love and affection that he gives us. We do not apologize for this nor do we over sentimentalize our relationship with him. He is our pet and he gives us much joy and purpose. I hope to share these experiences with you and also to provide useful information and entertainment.