PET TRACKER: by Kat Albrecht
Chapter 2, Part 2: After Jammer
It took months before I could bear the thought of getting another bloodhound. But the passion and desire to train one of these super sleuths was still strong in my mind and heart. When I heard there was a litter of bloodhound pups three hours away in Los Gatos, I decided I would go look.
I drove there with reservations. I knew better than to run out and buy the first puppy I saw. I only wanted look these pups over to help me get a feel for what I was looking for—and what I was not looking for. I would only look (although I would take a dog crate, you know, just in case). I’d just look and then I’d be ready to start my search for a bloodhound puppy in earnest.
As I pulled up the steep rut-filled dirt driveway that led to the breeder’s isolated home, I was greeted by the sound of bellowing howls from the older, mature bloodhounds. Bloodhounds do not bark—they practically sing. They open their mouths, shape their lips into a big Cheerio-like “O,” and out comes an extended “roooooooo, rooooooo” melody.
The bloodhound breeder greeted me and invited me to come take a look at the puppies. They were fenced in a dirt paddock, lined with chicken wire so they couldn’t crawl out. There was straw mixed in the area to keep the mud to a minimum and give the dogs a soft place to sleep. There were no cushy dog beds, no toys, no blankets, no collars—all the things you hope to find when you go looking at puppies that indicate the litter of puppies and the mother were well cared for.
There were three puppies and their mother in a horse pasture fit for horses. The puppies were four months old—two females and one male. The little male was the color of cinnamon. He had big, floppy, oar-shaped, chocolate-colored ears and a soft black, velour-like muzzle. He seemed to have enough saggy skin on his small frame to cover a Great Dane and little brown Bambi eyes with some of that excessive, loose skin hanging below them. This comical look was normal for a bloodhound, but I had not yet spent a lot of time around these dogs, and I was charmed by his woe-is-me appearance. He snuggled up against my leg.
And that was pretty much all it took. A cute pair of ears and a little snuggle and all my restraint and plans to “wait” and carefully research more puppies went out the window. I had wanted a bloodhound so badly that when I finally saw my opportunity to have one of my own, and he acted as though he belonged to me. I grabbed him and never looked back.
I named the puppy A.J., short for “After Jammer,” and in as many ways as my dearly departed Jammer had been the perfect prospect and Rachel had been a perfect puppy, A.J. was not. I should have known, of course, before I even agreed to take him. A.J. had never been socialized, something that is critical in the early weeks of a puppy’s life. Because of his very limited experience of the world, he was afraid of pretty much everything.
He was terrified while getting into the crate in my truck, more terrified when I started the engine, a panicked wreck when we started moving, and carsick before we even got to the highway. When I arrived at home three hours later, I unloaded my trembling puppy and plopped him down in my plush backyard. A.J. didn’t know what to do about grass and he was too petrified to walk on it. He also had never spent time inside of a house, either. All the new sights, smells, sounds, and textures were a shock to his system.
The next morning, I wrestled a collar onto A.J. and snapped on a leash. I thought he was going to have a heart attack. The presence of the unfamiliar object around his neck, plus the tether to me, was more than he could stand. I carried him outside, set him down on the driveway, and encouraged him to follow me. He locked up all four of his feet and refused to move. I pleaded and tried to coax him with treats. He suddenly lunged forward and bolted until he hit the end of the lead in front of me, then froze.
I called the breeder in Los Gatos and told him I wanted my money back. “I’m going to have to bring him back,” I explained. “He’s afraid of everything. I can’t even get him to walk on a leash. He won’t eat, and he’s terrified of everything.”
“No,” the breeder replied matter-of-factly. “He’s the right dog for you. You just need to spend more time with him. He’ll learn to trust you.”
I couldn’t believe it. I had expected the breeder to tell me when I could bring the faulty puppy back. I should have stood my ground, but instead, I decided to give it a little longer. Maybe A.J. did just need more time and attention. For no better reason than the fact that beyond all his fears, this puppy had a very sweet personality and was adorable in his own awkward way, I was willing to try.
loved this!