The Puppy Diaries: Raising a Dog Named Scout by Jill Abramson Read Free Book Online Page A

were enjoying a peaceful hour watching Antiques Roadshow , Scout climbed down from the couch and went behind it. As we watched the show, we were vaguely aware of what we assumed was the sound of Scout chewing on one of her rawhides, and she was really going at it. Then Henry got up to get a beer and saw, to his horror, that Scout had in fact been chewing on the leg of an old table, which was now completely covered with teeth marks. There was even a scattering of what looked like sawdust around the bottom of the leg.
    Clearly drastic action was required, and we began by removing all the nearby wooden chairs and tables. Next we christened the area on top of her crate the Land of No; this became a no-chew zone, and whenever
Scout stole a forbidden object we put it there. The roof of the crate soon resembled a clearance sale at Macy’s, with layers of outlawed goods stacked up high. Meanwhile, Scout manifested her obsession with chewing outdoors as well. Clumps of grass clippings from the lawn mower, pinecones, and even shells at the beach were all grist for her new set of choppers.
    I took some solace from the stories told to me by friends who had made it through the puppy chewing frenzy. Phyllis Goverman, my college roommate, told me that “chewing was almost the end for us.” As a young puppy, Lola, her now one-year-old Lab, had shredded Phyllis’s most comfortable chair, eating a large helping of the stuffing in the process. Lola had also savaged the linoleum floor in the kitchen, where Phyllis left her during the hours she was teaching. I also consulted with Anna Quindlen, a former Times colleague and friend, who had written a book I loved called Good Dog. Stay . Anna comforted me by recalling that her queenly Lab, Bea, was fascinated with paper as a puppy—valuable paper. “She once ate a refund check from the State of New York, and $400 in $20 bills,” Anna reported in an e-mail meant to reassure me.
    By late August, Scout was big enough to launch carefully planned raids on the Land of No. This
prompted us to give up her puppy-sized crate and buy one that would suit her when she grew to full size. At four and a half months, she already weighed almost forty pounds and was still gaining weight rapidly. Donna Cutler had estimated that she would ultimately weigh sixty pounds, but by using my powers as a crack investigative reporter, I observed Scout’s huge paws and deduced that Donna’s estimate would almost certainly prove too conservative.
    What to feed Scout, when to feed her, and how to begin more serious training to curb her irrepressible puppy habits—like chewing shoes or jumping up on guests—were sources of growing tension between Henry and me. Since her arrival, we had been feeding Scout the same kibble diet that Donna had started her on. But she was constantly hungry and would have happily eaten twice what we fed her. Meanwhile, Henry had instituted a ban on human food except for the yogurt on the kibble. He was determined that Scout not become the fussy eater and beggar that Buddy was, with his taste for grilled chicken or (I confess) salmon, preferably wild Alaskan sockeye. Our stern pack leader was quick to point out that Buddy had become so spoiled by this richer diet that he utterly spurned unadorned kibble, and it was true.
    Henry had been overjoyed to note that during her earliest weeks with us, Scout had been indifferent to
our family gatherings at the table, which I attributed to the new, stricter food rules. But one night she began barking excitedly while Henry was eating a bowl of strawberries with whipped cream. Funny, we thought, strawberries don’t usually appeal to dogs. Then, as I was scattering cheese on top of a pan of lasagna, Scout went nuts as I shoved the pan into the oven. That night we put two and two together: these white toppings on our food looked like her yogurt.
    The fatal connection—between our food and her always-hungry stomach—had been made. And once it was, she was