Lady Grace of Louisiana

                I believe I owe an explanation as to the name of this blog. Specifically, I’m referring to the reason why I call my dog Lady Grace of Louisiana. It’s not a very long story, so I’ll do my best to keep it as short as a puppy’s attention span.

                The Sterling Animal Shelter has a connection to Virginia and the south, just like I do, and that’s the reason I liked it right away. The shelter accepts dogs transported north from a shelter in Virginia and another in Tennessee and then adopts them out. Due to overpopulation in the south, this prevents hundreds if not thousands of dogs from being euthanized yearly. My personal assessment of the Sterling Shelter is that a majority of their dogs and puppies are transports.

                I asked the shelter volunteer about Grace’s history when I adopted her, and the information I received was that she came from the shelter in Tennessee. She was transported north the week before with a group of puppies ranging in ages from three to six months. The assumption, therefore, was that Grace was born in Tennessee.

                “Why don’t you name her Lady Grace of Tennessee?” Dad joked.

                I laughed him off. “That’s too big a name for a little dog.”

                A few days later I looked at Grace’s rabies certificate before I went to get her a dog license, and I noticed neither the address for the vet clinic nor the shelter which owned Grace at the time was located in Tennessee. Both addresses were in Louisiana. From there, I figured Grace was probably born in Louisiana, rescued there, and then transported to Tennessee and then Massachusetts with the hope that she’d be adopted.

                “How about Duchess Grace of Louisiana?” Dad asked.

                “I like Lady Grace of Louisiana,” I said before turning to the dog. “What do you think, Grace?”

                Grace ignored me as she chewed on her squeaky toy. 

Grace (6.5 months) looking very regal.

From Squeaky to Crazy

                The ribbed, light green ball lying on the floor holds Grace’s attention even though it’s pinned beneath the toe of my sneaker. She never breaks eye contact with it, as if blinking would cause the ball to disappear into a black hole. Her muscles tense until she looks like a statue. Her brindle colored front legs are stretched out in front of her in a play bow stance, her flat, black ears perk forward toward the ball, and her black and brindle tail curls toward her spine.

                I remove my foot from the ball and kick it down the hallway.

                Grace gallops off in pursuit. Her black nails claw into the green carpet. Her back paws leave skid lines as she catches up to the ball when it bounces off the closed door at the end of the hall. Her teeth clamp down on it hard enough to produce a squeak, and she runs back toward the living room.

                She chews on the ball as she runs, and the high-pitched squeak hits my ears in a regular beat. Each squeak seems to be getting Grace more and more excited. She pounces on the ball and then throws it up in the air to pounce on it again. She starts growling at the green toy before bouncing back and forth in front of the toy.

                Suddenly the playful bouncing becomes an energy explosion. Grace bolts down the hall, and then she bolts back toward the living room. She takes a running leap onto the L-shaped couch and scrambles across the faux leather. She pops off the couch to take another run in the hallway before hopping on the couch again. This time Dad manages to grab her mid-stride, wrapping his arms around her stomach and snatching her out of the air.

                “Sit, Grace,” he says.

                She struggles a bit, but Dad forces her to sit. He makes her look at him as he rubs her chin and neck. Then just as quickly as the explosion began, it ends. Grace collapses onto the floor and falls into a deep sleep. She’ll be out for two hours now.

                The dog trainer says this energy explosion is a puppy thing. He explained it as air being let out of a balloon, that last bit of craziness before she’s completely out of energy. He recommended keeping a leash on Grace so she’s easier to control when she does go a little crazy. I’m behind that idea, but I’ve also made a change myself.

                Squeaky toys have been officially banned from inside the house. I no longer get to hear that high-pitched sound from the floor or to see Grace becoming more and more excited about the small green ball on the carpet. Yes, that does mean I have to take her out for a high-intensity game of fetch in the backyard at least once a day. But I would rather do that than have a puppy explosion once a day.