Cleo: The Midnight Wakeup

Photo: Cleo, Night 1, Thursday, 2/13/14
Home in Park Slope


It's 2:42 in the morning, and something is licking my face. Am I dreaming? I slowly open my eyes and look out the back window of my house. The bright red lights of Downtown Manhattan are glistening, and I'm on my new inflatable mattress, on the floor, sandwiched between my desk and a sofa. A mammal is licking my face. Oh, yes, my new puppy. Duh......

"Why are you doing this?" I say sweetly to Cleo as I open my iPad to see the hour. "Go back to sleep like you did last night. At least till 7." No way, says Cleo, determined to rouse me. I rub her stomach. She bites my hand. "You want to play?" I ask somewhat sarcastically. "No, Cleo, we're not playing," I say very quietly but very sternly. I hand her the antler bone I bought her a few hours before. No interest. "It's the middle of the night. See the lights out the window." I'm pleading.

She begins pawing my hair.

No, Cleo, let's do a three-peat. Thursday, Friday, Saturday. Through the night. 7 hours. I had felt tentative sleep-through-the-night victory was in sight just 24 hours earlier. Then, Cleo begins to bark. Loudly.

Game plan change.

Okay, we're going out, I am thinking. It's official. I have no choice in the matter. I'm not in charge -- yet. (just you wait, Cleo!). Cleo is running the after-party and is supposedly doing just what we're trying to teach her -- take her business outside. Commitment is calling. Time to get her out there to do her thing. 2:44 a.m. Time to put on the leash. I tell my husband I'm going out in the 18-degree cold in the middle of the night. Two flights of stairs. Descended. Cleo in his arms. He's naked. "That's attractive, honey," I mutter. Me in an old-lady nightgown. "You look great!" he says and means it. No leggings. No pants. Down black coat. On. Earmuffs. Check. Treats in left pocket. Good. Plastic poopy-picker-upper bag in right pocket. Leash on. We're ready.

I carry Cleo down the front stoop of our Brooklyn brownstone. I put her down gently on the frigid red bricks dusted with a gauzy layer of powder, like sugar-snow. At least two cups of pee pour out of Cleo's back end onto the sidewalk, then freeze in little yellow crystals. I give her two treats and, half-groggy, still find the words to say, "Good Cleo." I must admit that, through my stupor, I am quietly proud of my pup. She starts walking awkwardly up the front steps. They are taller than she is. I praise her for making it to the top. They're slippery for a pup whose paw pads are about the size of corn kernels. She finds her way back to our bed: an air mattress covered in a luscious Company Store down comforter. She loves to sleep on top of it. I love to sleep under it. Within five minutes, she's back to sleep. So is my husband, in what used to be our shared bed -- the nice normal queen bed in the master bedroom. I've now relegated myself to my office across the hall.

I just took 10 mg of ambien so I can get back to sleep. But first.......... I have a more official introduction to make!

It's Cleopatra Sachar -- Cleo, for short. Born Nov. 5, 2013 somewhere in Tennessee. One mother, likely a beagle. One father. Not entirely sure. Supposedly a Labrador. Beagles? I've never seen a beagle I can remember. Oh, Snoopy. Yes, a cartoon pup of my childhood. But are Labradors golden? Cleo is. I have just four pages of paperwork on her. They say nothing about her DNA or her progeny or her four hundred years of lineage except that she's had a bunch of shots, been spayed and been microchipped. Her original owner? I have no idea. The pound to which she was taken, with siblings, in Tennessee? I don't know. Where in Tennessee? I don't know. Why in Tennessee? How did she get from Tennessee to New York? What was going to happen to her if she'd stayed down there? Not my concern just this moment tonight, though I know a few things I'll share soon. And inquiries are pending.

A few other facts to start us off.

I found Princess (that was her name 72 hours ago) on Petfinder.com. Just one week ago almost to the hour, I was at the Pennsylvania Hotel with my wonderful husband, Joel, looking at gorgeous Cavalier King Charles Spaniels that were going to cost me $3,500 apiece. I was going to buy one. I have seen this breed in the art I study as a docent, formerly at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, then at Hunter College in the MA program, now at the Brooklyn Museum, where I'm also a docent. I also met this breed last year at the AKC's Meet the Breeds show at the Javitz Center. And last week, I met breeders who had Cavalier pups for sale. A few more were expecting litters this spring. Would I want a red-and-white (a blenheim) or a tan-and-black or a ruby? Many decisions? How did I feel about this gorgeous breed owned by kings and Nancy Reagan that, all the same, is prone to a horrific heart ailment and is often dead before 9 years of age? I'm starting to worry. All the same, I ordered three books on King Charles Cavaliers from Amazon.com. All have arrived. They show gorgeous animals, show dogs, famous people holding their companion Cavaliers. They show pictures of the four color patterns. They talk about the 400-year history of the breed of kings and queens. Mary Queen of Scots was beheaded with her King Charles beneath her skirts. I'm in awe. I'm going to own one of these! or is it more like: Will I ever own one of these? Oh, how proud I'll be walking down the street, I think.

My aunt had her poodle. My neighbor and walking partner has a Newfoundland pup. My other neighbor has her full-bred Kerry Blue Terrier. I corresponded with three Cavalier breeders all week after the New York show. At work, I tell a colleague who loves dogs that I am about to buy a Cavalier.

"You can't do that," she said, her voice rising. "You just can't do that. No, it's more. You shouldn't do that. Why don't you adopt a rescue? You should. I'll help you. There are so many rescues out there." No one really ever speaks the real story. A "rescue," I'm learning, is a nice name -- a noun, not a verb like a firefighter uses -- for a dog or a cat that, somewhere on the line, is about to be killed as an infant or an old-lady animal or a crippled animal or any of a hundred other reasons for no reason other than that it was born -- responsibly or irresponsibly -- and turned in to the place where such animals are put to sleep forever. No longer wanted. Anne told me she'd help me find a rescue pup. "No pit bulls," I said. "I know nothing about them, but I'm afraid."

"They can be fine," she said, "but okay."

Usually, I bike to and from work: From Park Slope to DUMBO in Brooklyn, New York. About 3.5 miles downhill one way. About 3.5 miles slightly uphill the other. But this night, Wednesday, I took the subway home. Too much ice on the roads to bike. I met a darling girl with a puppy in her front pack. "Sweet dog," I said. "Where did you get her?" I can't remember what she said, but I told her quickly I was starting to inquire about getting a rescue dog. "Really, I wanted a Cavalier, I told her. But I'm trying to get into this rescue idea."

"Oh, you must go on Petfinder.com," she said. "You'll find a dog there." Is that how you found yours? I asked. Hers was so cute. No, she said, bounding happily off the train into the night before she could explain. She probably had a full breed.

Walking home, thoughts of rescue animals dominate my thoughts. How would I feel, mild snob that I am, saying I have a "mutt" for a pet? How do I explain that I have absolutely no idea how she got to Planet Earth. Is it enough to say, "She's a rescue?" I wonder. Seems like I'm going to acquire a dog that doesn't have a breed name. There will be no books on Amazon.com about my unique pooch. I popped upstairs to my office and logged on to my laptop, clicking to petfinder.com. The name sounded familiar. I probably had seen an ad or two. I type in my location: 11215.
My desired type: Dog (as opposed to cat or gerbil)
Breed (there is no breed, I figure. I won't be greedy and ask for a King Charles Cavalier). I leave that one blank.
Age: Baby
Gender: Female.
I hit "FIND PETS."

How many dogs do you think will turn up? 150? 400? How does 10,192 hit you? How near? I yell to my husband. "Do you think near means California?" That's not near. No, these are within 5 miles. 5 miles. I didn't know there were 10,192 people within 5 miles of my house, though as I think about it, that probably does make sense, given that New York City has a population of some 8 million. Anyhow, where the heck are all these homeless dogs? How will I look at them all? I have to make an informed decision. or do I?

With 15 dogs on each Petfinder page, each with a photo and a short explainer, I do a quick calculation. If I spend 3 minutes on each dog, and look at them all, I will spend 170 days getting through them if I do this for 3 hours a day. No way. I must move fast on this. The sweet-looking ones are probably only there for a day or so. Winter will pass and spring, and summer will start. Not possible. I've been thinking about buying a dog for five years. It's time to move!

Lucky for me, after 3 or 4 pages, I see a pup that looks precious. And her show name for Petfinder is Princess. I write to an organization that's hyperlinked on the page: Waggytail Rescue. Within 12 minutes, and I mean minutes, "Mel" writes back telling me to fill out the adoption application on Waggytail's Web site. I do so. I give four personal references, write about how long I'm home during the day (2 days a week, if I'm lucky), my lifestyle (mid-50s and married to a second husband), my experience as a parent of humans (two grown daughters), my ability to find a vet. I email it in. Within another hour, Princess's foster mom writes me. Her name is Chelsea and she works in merchandising at J Crew, I'll learn later when, during a frigid and wet winter storm, I tromp into the West Village to meet Princess and Chelsea. My husband, who owns a restaurant in the Village, joins me. Up four flights of stairs to meet what is already the love of our life. There is Princess, right in Chelsea's loving arms. This adorable animal, who was about to be killed in some vicious pound in Tennessee, is going to be my baby. We talk for an hour. I manage to hold a piece of a conference call for work right in Chelsea's darling apartment. I charge my iPhone. And then, we're off into a cab, heading to the Vet in Park Slope. Chelsea has given us her blessing. We will be Princess's "forever home." Princess, who is getting a new name every 10 seconds as we drive to the Slope, is on my lap with seat belt around us both.

Vet visit: pro forma.
We dash next to the Unleashed store in our neighborhood. Got to get the crate for crate-training! Got to get chew toys. Cuddle toys. Blankets. Okay. Done.

Home, we go. Night 1 with Cleo, who might be Chloe, who might be Dolly. Who knows? It's bed time.

The journey has begun. I can't wait to tell you all about it. One woman's experiences bringing a rescue pup into the world. I love you, Cleo. Sleep tight. Live long. You are loved.