Dogs with communist origins find their names democratically

There’s a new puppy in the Bedlam Blue Bungalow.

Why another dog? Indeed, why add one more hound to the chaos in the Outer, Outer, Outer, Outer Excelsior?

Suffice it to say we don’t choose the when, the where or the who of a dog. The dog chooses us. The other day, Jill and I headed toward Bakersfield to meet a canine that doesn’t have any Pekingese in her whatsoever. Our past seven pack members have all been at least part Peke, a breed that originated in China more than a thousand years ago.

On a cold Saturday morning, we drove down I-5 to meet a Havanese. The Havanese breed was not recognized by the American Kennel Club until 1996. Whether counting human years or dog years, I’m older than a class of canine.

The Havanese are an offshoot of the Tenerife, dogs that migrated from the Canary Islands with the Spanish and then evolved pretty much on their own.

My husband Brian’s comment: “Well, at least we’re consistent that they’ve all been from capitals of communist regimes. Our next will be either a Muscovite or a Pyongyangese.”

We stopped at a farm stand, where lemons, candied almonds and rosemary olive oil stood in rows.

Another car stopped. Sitting in the back was a fluff of black and white, no bigger than a tribble. She was parti-colored. I was just a little awed by how wonderful and scary it was to meet a creature who weighed less than 2 pounds. The little stub of a tail flicked, and I was hooked.

Wasn’t sure how my sons would react. Bandit, who died in August, had been Zane’s dog, and we still haven’t picked up his ashes. But I walked in the door with her, and Zane said, “I’m almost crying. She likes us.” Aidan nodded: “Well at least this one can walk.”

The family fell in love, and thus began the argument of what to name her.

The ghost of our late friend Tim whispered that there’s a powerful magic in the naming. Aidan said she looked like a “Panda.” Zane said “Oreo,” forgetting that was the name his girlfriend teased him with. Brian said that since she was now Queenie’s sibling, we should call her “Lil Sister.” I was wondering how we’d tell Sister Lillian we named the dog after her, but was saved by the veto of both boys.

Why another dog? So that Queenie wouldn’t be alone. She loves a good pack, although she never aspires to be more than beta. For the first day of the new dog’s arrival, however, Queenie drooled. Poor Queenie. Drool is the pooch’s version of chain smoking. She does it only when she’s nervous, but her chest fur was soaked.

But here is what wolf packs do. They figure out who’s who by playing. The new puppy quickly installed herself as the alpha. She chased Queenie around the bungalow, at one point grabbing her tail with her mouth, and sliding all the way through the living room.

“She sure has a lot of moxie,” I noted. Queenie stopped. The puppy skidded to a halt. Both tails wagged.

Aidan spoke with as many exclamation points as he ever has: “That’s it! Moxie!”

Moxie was the name of a nerve tonic, invented in 1876 by Dr. Augustus Thompson, who named it after Lieutenant Moxie, who supposedly discovered the bitter root it used in South America. Historians doubt that Lt. Moxie ever existed, and the gentian root grows in Maine. Much as this column does, Dr. Thompson never let the facts get in the way of a good story. But the advertising claimed only that it would “build up your nerve,” not your honesty.

Why a dog? Their lives are short. And their loss is hard. But while they’re here, they love us. Fiercely. More than our sons do, I think. Nothing against teenagers, but puppies never complain when you serve them meat loaf for dinner.

Why a dog? As I type this, Moxie is running circles around Queenie, who attempts to get past her to the backyard. Neither thinks about orthodontia, Putin’s war on Ukraine or North Korea’s missiles. They are instead totally in the moment, fascinated by a tennis ball, and they remind us that we’d be a lot better off if we stayed in the moment too. Don’t worry, be puppy.

Why a dog? Because dogs make me a better human. I want to be half as nice as Moxie seems to think I am.

Nothing against teenagers, but puppies never complain when you serve them meat loaf for dinner.