Conversations With Pepper (21:41)

Our dog Pepper had recently undergone some social media scrutiny after posting her true feelings about dog crates. She said she didn’t like them. She suggested dog owners were kidding themselves if they thought crates gave their pet a sense of home, safety, and security. Pepper said any dog she knew, if having the choice, would choose to sleep on a soft, fluffy duvet-covered king-sized bed over sleeping in a jail cell any day! She said, as usual, humans were trying to feel less guilt by convincing themselves that a dog would prefer licking their privates in a crate over doing their cleaning business spread eagle on the leather sofa.

Comments on her post were about fifty-fifty, for and against the dog crate. So, about fifty percent thought she was a spoiled diva and should be happy she had a place to sleep inside our house at all. The crate lovers were ferocious and even threatening! When I became concerned, Pepper responded, saying,” Don’t fret, Dad. They’re probably stockholders in the Acme Dog Crate Company and are afraid it may affect their portfolio. It will blow over.” Well, it didn’t blow over, and Pepper decided that maybe if she held a press conference, she could clear the air.

She tried to remain as neutral as possible by inviting a reporter from NPR, Fox News, Doggie World magazine, and, of course, me. The questioning began:
Pepper: Yes, my Dad.
Me: (I immediately tried to deflect away from the dog crate controversy)
Pepper, I was curious and have been for some time; when you bring me the ball to play fetch, occasionally, you won’t give me the ball. I don’t get it. What’s the deal?
Pepper: I want you to chase me. Next question. Yes, the gentleman from Fox
Fox: Thank you, Joe Smith from Fox News. Even though we have already broadcast this as a fact, we were curious: There have been reports that you are in cahoots with the Bow Wow Dog Bed Company, and this whole thing is a conspiracy to change the direction of dog habits from crates to cute little floor beds.
Pepper: What? Absolutely not. I never heard of the Bow Wow Bed whatever. There was no conspiracy! Don’t worry, Joe, nobody is out to get you. God!!
Yes, the lady from NPR.
NPR: Thank you, Indira Gomez Alexa Siri Chin from NPR News. Pepper, do you think your lack of women’s rights had anything to do with how you were treated at the doggy mill where you were born, which could have thwarted your psychological desire to be crated?
Pepper: No! First, it wasn’t a doggie mill. It was a lovely place. Second, I just prefer 400-count sheets to a dirty towel in the bottom of a steel box.
NPR: would you blame climate change?
Pepper: No
NPR: Fracking?
Pepper: NO!! Any other questions? Yes, my Dad again.
Me: How come you don’t make a sound until I’m trying to have a phone conversation or just trying to talk to a customer? Then you won’t stop barking!
Pepper: You talk loudly, you laugh like a hyena, and you slap your thigh when someone says something you think is funny. Quite frankly, it’s embarrassing.

At that point, the press conference appeared over as Pepper popped a squat next to the podium and trotted off, leaving the audience in a state of mild shock.

I must admit, the old girl had come a long way since we first brought her home. Let me take you back a few years.

Victoria had made her mind up. We were getting a puppy. As happens so often in marriages, I didn’t have much say in the matter.

Molly, the wonder dog, had passed away years earlier after months of a slow, agonizing downward health spiral that ended when our vet came to the farm to do the deed. Cute little Molly, who had loved moving to the farm after living for years in the city with Victoria, was now at the end of her life. When the vet arrived, Victoria lifted her frail twenty-pound bejon/toy poodle onto her lap. Molly quietly lay there as if she knew and accepted it was time to go. Vic wrapped her 17-year-old fur baby in a blanket and cradled her gently against her heart. The vet proceeded with the injection, and that’s when Molly did something she had never done before. She slowly lifted her head to her mother’s face and gave her the sweetest, softest whisper of a kiss goodbye.

Do you feel a tear coming on as you read this? You can imagine being in the room. That was one of the reasons I was not up for getting another dog. I wasn’t sure I could go through that experience again. Other reasons included having the responsibility of another household member, being tied down, and the cost of properly caring for a dog in today’s world. I vigorously pled my case; we got the dog a few days later.

The dog was the last of a litter of Australian Labradoodles. So, basically, it was the one that no one else wanted. Maybe a little smaller. Perhaps a little shyer and possibly a little more hesitant to follow orders. The puppy was not cheap. I could tell Victoria was not going to tell me how much the puppy cost, but I finally got it out of her. After I picked myself up off the floor, I calmly replied, “WHAT!!!! ARE YOU CRAZY?” After some quick math in my head, it was clear that this puppy she had just brought home had cost us pretty much the entire amount of money we had made off our sweet corn sales for that whole summer! “Don’t worry, she’ll be worth it; you’ll fall in love, you’ll see,” she replied as I stomped out of the house in search of an axe and anything to chop!

There was nothing I could do about it now. It was a done deal. The puppy was ours. The dog came with no name. So that was the first order of business: name the puppy. She was all black with a tiny white star on her chest and a white goatee very much like mine. I had to admit she was pretty cute. I said,” How about “Midnight”? Vic said, “How about Raven? I said,” How about “Ebony?” Vic said, “How about “Panther?” I said, “How about “Aretha?” Vic said, “What?” I said, “How about Beyonce?” Vic said, “That’s enough.” I said, “How about Tina Turner?” Vic left the room.

We decided to post a picture of the puppy, known then as the “new farm dog,” and asked our farm customers for name suggestions. We received a lot of great name ideas for “new farm dog.” In reality, I wasn’t sure “new farm dog” was appropriate*. It seemed that “new dog” would be a better label after the first few days. This was the dog I took out each morning to the barn to get used to the chickens get familiar with the barn activity and the morning farm chores. Once we got to the barn, I opened the barn doors, and “new farm dog” immediately hightailed it back to the house, whimpering and whining to be let in.

Asking for names for the puppy actually made things more complicated, as we received many great suggestions.  Names like Minnie (get it, Minnie Rouse), Cooper as in chicken coop, and Shaft. The puppy was definitely not a Shaft; she was afraid of everything.  The name Vic decided on was Peppermint Patty—Pepper for short. Victoria always admired Peppermint Patty from the Peanuts gang.  P.P. was one of the first women’s libbers who never wanted to wear a dress and excelled at sports, much to the boy’s chagrin.

I’m not sure it’s the same in every household, but in the Rouse House, Victoria takes care of Peppers’s basic needs. You know, feeding, bathing, brushing, making vet appointments, and meeting educational requirements. It’s pretty much like Pepper is another child Victoria gave birth to.  (For you wise guys out there, I will have you know that only a couple of my children were ever seen by a vet.)  I think she took on these tasks not because she loves doing them but because she worries that a few critical dog duties may not get done if they are left to me.  OK, probably most of them wouldn’t get done.

Of course, feeding a dog these days has taken on a whole new meaning.  My childhood dog, Midge, who, I might add, lived to be almost twenty, ate Purina Dog Chow. That was it.  You kept her bowl full of dog chow and were good to go.  As long as you didn’t mind dog chow food farts that could clear a room faster than a tarantula sighting, it was a pretty simple routine.

Feeding Pepper and what to feed her began with much research and experimentation. I questioned the time Victoria was spending on her research and study. It was like she was preparing a doctoral thesis. She said it was essential that the dog eat a balanced diet of micronutrients, vitamins, minerals, and fiber. I asked if this was for Pepper or my grandmother. My story of the long-lived Midge and her Purina Dog Chow diet didn’t hold water with Victoria. Dog food, bagged or canned directly off the grocery store shelves, wasn’t even tested on Pepper for likability. If it wasn’t in its own refrigerator on the grocery store floor or ordered online from an alleged vet who researched his magical formula for 50 years, it wasn’t considered for the new Dog Princess.

Even better were the homemade entrees Victoria created with ingredients such as free range this and organic that, as well as homemade chicken broth from our chickens. I would come in from the field and wonder aloud, “Wow, what’s cooking? It smells so good in here; what’s for dinner?”  The usual reply was, “Don’t touch that; it’s for Pepper.”  I would go to the fridge and grab a bowl of leftovers, a delightful combo of ground beef, squash, carrots, and rice.  My fork was almost to my lips with a load of this taste treat when I heard, “Don’t eat that. It’s for Pepper!” I swear to you, if I go to the refrigerator right now, there will be more bowls, plates, and other assorted non-toxic containers filled with delicious concoctions for the dog and a jar of pickles and 4-day-old tuna fish for me.

Of course, I will never say a word because if I do, most of you men know what will happen.  “Oh, you have a problem with how I feed the dog?  Then you do it!”  And we certainly don’t want that to happen, and neither does the dog.

During the first few months of Pepper’s tenure on the farm, I found she could be a valuable member of our economic think tank. As a matter of fact, Pepper was solely responsible for coming up with the idea of our “Born to Chew” t-shirt. The front of the t-shirt is reminiscent of Springsteen’s Born to Run album cover. Pepper is standing on her hind legs, leaning against a wall, wearing a “Bad Girl” t-shirt and a guitar slung over her shoulder, with a ripped glove and a tattered sock in her mouth.

The dog was a chewing machine! One night, I walked into the family room wearing a thick winter sweatshirt. I returned to the kitchen a few minutes later with only a few threads clinging to my body!  I have found that Pepper’s favorite bone is in my arm. The never-ending chewing marathon brought forth another income stream for the farm: Pepper’s shredding event! We told our customers to stop by with their important papers that needed shredding, and she would annihilate them while they waited. With extra security measures in place, because she can’t read, there’s no chance Pepper could steal your private information. The only hitch is that Pepper sometimes eats some of the shredded documents. You will be able to tell she ate some of the paper when you notice a piece hanging out of her butt as she trots to her next job. Of course, there is a benefit to this as well; who would want to steal your social security number off a sliver of paper that came out of a dog’s ass.

At four months of age, Pepper’s chew card read:
Six pairs of shoes
Three towels
Four hats, including my favorite Orioles cap
Two sweatshirts
Three pairs of gloves, including my favorite $30 work gloves and
Socks too numerous to mention
It seems her favorite chewing items are extremity coverings. Shoes, hats, socks and gloves.  I can only figure out that she seems attracted to the smell of my hands, head, and feet.

One day, I felt courageous and decided this would be the day Pepper and I would go on our first father-daughter shopping trip. This was the day the tide began to turn as far as my relationship with Pepper. She was still a puppy. I had just taught her to sit a few days before. I knew the Tractor Supply store allowed dogs to stroll through their aisles.

We had a good time. We both used our senses. I looked at a lot of stuff, and Pepper smelled a lot of stuff. I picked out some gate hinges and a tractor muffler, and Pepper sniffed out a ball and a rawhide chew. When we got to the checkout, the cashier leaned over the counter with a mini milk bone treat and said, “Can you sit?” Pepper and I stood there frozen with fear, or at least I was.* She looked up at me, and I looked down at her. The cashier again asked, “Can you sit for a treat?” Pepper looked up at me once more. My nervous anticipation grew with each passing microsecond. When our eyes met again, I shook my head in the affirmative, and she sat down! I was so proud I almost cried! That was my greatest Dog Dad moment ever! My insides were celebrating. I may have even done a fist pump. I thought as long as her mother didn’t smell the milk bone on her breath when we got home, we’d be OK. That’s when I heard a tiny little splutter. My celebration was short-lived, and I should have known after months of palette grooming that a milk bone dog biscuit wasn’t going to hack it. When I peered down, I saw Pepper had spit the milk bone out of her mouth and onto the store floor. Oh well, it was the sitting part that counted.

As Pepper matured, she finally became interested in coming with me to the barn. Her primary interest seemed to be the chickens and chicken poop, but at least she was acting farmy. I often climbed over our split rail fence beside the barn and called her to join me. Without hardly a running start, she jumped and majestically cleared the fence. I loved that. Once, we were on a hike and ran into another guy with his dog. Pepper decided to show off and started sprinting around the field and leaping over logs and ditches. “Wow, she’s fast!” he said. I loved that. After daily practicing with increasing levels of intensity and difficulty, Pepper became a proficient fetcher and catcher of the ball. Many customers at our market were amazed when I threw her ball, and she made acrobatic catches in the parking lot. I loved that. No matter how hard I tried to fight it, I knew I was falling in love.

Taking Pepper to the vet took me back to the days when we took our children to the Doctor for their shots. The child was all happy and smiling, playing with the toys in the waiting room, asking if she could take Stuffy, the friendly bear, into the Doctor’s office with her. Lifting her onto the examing table and the sudden, shocked look on the child’s face that peered deep into your soul that said, “I trusted you!” as the Doctor plunged the needle into their arm or leg. It was even worse with Pepper. It only took one visit for the dog to know, from that point on, exactly where you were taking her when you left home. It didn’t matter if it was a grooming appointment or the dreaded shots; Pepper wouldn’t get out of the car in the veterinarian’s parking lot on her own.

One week, we had a bit of a setback when Pepper’s team of doctors found some bacteria in her stool sample. Collecting stool samples is one job Vic will allow me to do. I consider myself a layperson in the world of stool, so having bacteria in stool did not seem odd. It actually seemed a bit redundant to me. However, the particular bacteria they found could only be traced to one place, you guessed it, chicken poop.  So how do you keep a dog, who seemingly loves chicken poop, away from it when 600 chickens are ranging everywhere? I promised the vet to take on the responsibility of maintaining a more watchful eye on her and try to instill the nastiness of eating chicken poop.

There was a time when I began having conversations with Pepper. After seeing Pepper chasing and catching a chicken escapee from the chicken run, one chat went something like this:

Me..What are you doing?
Pepper..What do you mean, what am I doing? I’m herding the flock for you.
Me..Then why does it appear you’re eating instead of herding?
Pepper..Dad, I would never hurt the chickens.  I remove a few of their feathers from their back so they have a bald spot, like you, so the other chickens will shun them as punishment for getting out.
Me..Boy, you’ve really thought this out.
Pepper..Of course, I’m part poodle!
Me..Well then, Ms. Poodle, how do you explain me catching you dragging a chicken across the backyard the other day?
Pepper..Dad, Dad, Dad, I was pulling that chicken from danger.  Didn’t you hear the hawk that was ready to strike?  Geez, what is wrong with you?  You know, I’m also a part retriever, and that’s the kind of stuff we do.
Me..I don’t know; it looked a little suspicious.
Pepper..You know that’s the problem with you humans; you think you know everything, but you don’t know anything!  When was the last time you were a dog?
Me..Ah, I guess never.
Pepper.. That’s right, so you have no clue what I’m thinking, how my instincts work, what I really like to eat, or how I play you like a nickel slot machine to be treated like a princess, DO YOU?!?!?
Me..Um, I guess not.
Pepper..Now get out of my way and go do your little farm chores so I can get some real work done around here!  Oh, while we’re getting a few things off our chests, chicken poop.
Me..Yeah?
Pepper..You get upset when you catch me eating it. Right?
Me.Right
Pepper..Have you tried it?
Me..God, no!
Pepper..Again, with the assumptions.

Pepper is now four years old, a young adult in the dog world. She has settled into our everyday life, which is more relaxed than when she first arrived during the height of the COVID pandemic. She seemingly has enjoyed most aspects of her busy life on the farm as she has grown.

She’s enjoyed pilfering a farm hands left-out sandwich. She’s enjoyed loving visitors who threw her the ball and barking at those who wouldn’t. She’s enjoyed children who came to the farm market with their parents demanding a catch-and-fetch performance by her. She’s enjoyed the outdoor yoga on the farm twice a week, where she occasionally has wandered into the group and performed her own downward dog. She has appeared monthly at our farm cooking demos, checking out delightful James Beard award-winning treats that she occasionally sniffed and walked away from, much to the chef’s disappointment. The Air BnB guests came and went, and some who made the mistake of leaving their door open might find her on their bed enjoying a quiet repose. And there was Downstairs Paul, our basement apartment dweller, who she patiently put up with, yet never missed a chance to bark at him each evening when he came home from work as if she had never seen him before.

If someone is coming down the driveway, she’ll let you know. If there’s something going on in the woods, a movement, or a sound that only she can see or hear, she will not only let you know but remain at her post until she comes in with the “all clear.” And if you’re not feeling well, she will stay by your side until you feel better. 

So, after saying all of this, and I hate to admit it, Victoria was right, yet again. When I initially questioned the dog’s cost, she said, “Don’t worry, she’ll be worth it; you’ll fall in love.” I guess I have, and I’ll use this as proof; nobody knows this, not even Victoria, but before I turn out the lights every night, I lean down to where Pepper is sleeping atop her goose feather down-filled comforter and whisper, “Good night, my beautiful girl. I love you and give her a little kiss on her head. This triggers a hind leg to pop up like I hit a switch that says, “Don’t forget my belly rub.” Belly rub accomplished, I lay down, turn off the light, and think, “How can Victoria always be right!