Christmas gift

It’s late “Christmas Eve Eve,” as my family is fond of saying.

T-minus 25 hours before the Big Day.

And I look across the darkened room:  The fireplace casts its dance of yellow atop the red embers, Christmas tunes echo softly through the doorway … and on the floor are the shadows of stuffed toys, rawhide bones of various sizes, and enough leaves and sticks dragged in from outside that a rake would be as useful as a broom.

Nellie has arrived.

She’s about 50 pounds now with thick, white fir and a touch of beige at her head … the “badger” look among the breed. That she is 50 pounds at just 4 months old is a sign of big things to come. 

But big is okay. We’re prepared. We tell ourselves that.  

* * *

“Did you bring paper towels?”

Sarah, the breeder, asked the question just as we and the pup were set to leave her and husband Bob’s farmhouse west of Minneapolis. We'd come to bring the pup home to Kansas City for the first time.

Cindy, daughter Meghan and I had driven up on a Friday, spent the night in the city, then steered our way along two-lane roads to their farm. Son Zach couldn't join us because of school obligations. As we entered their circle drive, a dozen white four-legged adults behind fences barked a welcome.

And there was our youngster – in the puppy pen, sitting alone. Most if not all of her puppy peers had been claimed by other owners. It’s a long story of why she was among the last, having to do with distemper taking Michka from us while also invading our house, and a vet’s recommendation that we wait a good six weeks before we brought a new pup home. (See "When Hope Falls Short.")

Bob, pup and Meghan.

Sarah and Bob, a wonderful, welcoming couple of faith and farm talents, had agreed to keep her while we deemed the house safe. We’d exchanged some emails during the wait. “Your pup is special,” Sarah assured us. “She will be a gentle giant.”

And at last the day came. So here we were, ready to drive back to Kansas City, but with no paper towels.

“Here … you’ll need these,” said Sarah, handing them to Meghan.

We had no idea.

* * *

If you don’t know the breed, a Great Pyrenees at puppy stage is a ball of white fluff – but about the size of the first snowball you’d roll to make a snowman. It has massive front and hind paws and a big, squarish face dotted with coal-black eyes and large nose.

Though dark, the eyes are expressive, highlighted by spare, black eyelashes that curl away from shaggy eyebrows.

Even as pups, everything about them suggests “big.”  Not big in a plodding sense. But big as in deliberate, methodical, contemplative, determined, patient, even stubborn. The world turns slowly for these guys … at 33 1/3 rpm while the rest of us spin hurriedly at 78.

Nell, right, at play.

We had visited the pups six weeks ago and watched them play. And they did, though seemingly in slow motion. They’d rear back casually on their hind legs, their thick paws outstretched, now up in the air, embracing the sky. Their paws would then settle back down … oh so gently …  landing with a pat on a playmate’s back.

Then the playmate would turn and softly return the favor.

Rough-housing without the rough.

Their deliberateness is only natural, of course. Size in the animal kingdom generally dictates speed. Elephants move slowly for a reason. But that doesn’t tell the whole story here. There’s a gene in these dogs that’s genial, laid back, sweet … almost heaven-sent. 

I say almost, because they are bred to guard the flock with a loyalty and focus found in the best soldier.

Then again, what better a breed to guard the lamb?  Shepherds have long cherished the Pyr. 

* * *

We said our goodbyes to Sarah and Bob and their Milk and Honey Farm and put the pup in the back seat. Meghan volunteered to sit in back. I drove, Cindy rode shotgun, and we steered our way back to the two-lane.

Within seconds, the pup turned her 50 pounds around, plopped her paws on the rear of the back seat, and peered plaintively out the back window, whining as she saw her family of four months bark a chorus of goodbyes.

And then the slobber began. 

Now, we’ve all seen dogs slobber. I once had an Irish Setter that would salivate long strands of thick glue as she watched us eat. I considered that gross but cute.

But to see this pup slobber is like seeing the Mississippi converge with the Nile … in a rainstorm.

“I need paper towels, quick!” Meghan yelled.

Cindy started peeling them off like giant sheets of toilet paper, at least one every five seconds. “More!” Meghan pleaded. “I should have worn a raincoat!"

I sympathized. While I couldn’t fully witness the torrent – I was driving – I imagined a Dutch boy with too few fingers in the dike.

Worse, this was a rental car. And the pup was still facing backwards, whining, pouring gallons into the back window’s deck and possibly into the car radio’s rear speakers.

There would be hell to pay at Enterprise, I reasoned.

Meghan stems the flow.

“We need real towels!” I shouted.

Maybe it was my shout, but the pup then added a new dimension to the trip. She welcomed us from the other end, passing enough gas to lift the Malibu’s four wheels like a modern-day Flubber car.

“Oh my God!” Meghan cried.

I concurred.

By this time, Cindy was rendered useless by laughter and tears. My tears came from the gas. 

And Meghan … well, she mightily braved the stink, holding towel after towel under the spout.

We were just 10 minutes down the road. How, I thought, could we do this for eight hours? 

“We’ve got to name her,” I said. “We can’t keep telling her what to do without a name.”

In hindsight, it was silly … we thought giving her a name might help grab her attention. Like she’d realize who she was in mere seconds, then smartly heed our commands. But we all agreed it seemed a logical next step, if only to give our own shouts better context.

“Ugh, turn around you … uh … dog!”  That was having no effect.

So as Meghan continued sopping up, we quickly reviewed the dozen choices we languidly discussed in the long drive up to Minneapolis.

I can’t recall how or why – it was truly a blur – but we finally settled on “Nellie.”  It seemed a good fit. And we promptly used the name to full advantage.  

“Come on, Nell … settle down!”  “Turn around, Nellie, come on girl!”  “Oh, gawd, yuck, Nellie!  Jeez …!”

At last we saw a dollar store. “They’ll have towels,” Cindy said.

She dashed in and came back with a few towels plus a bed sheet to spread across the rear window’s deck.

Up the road was a McDonald’s. We’d now only driven about 20 minutes, but we needed a bathroom break. I wanted some coffee, and Meghan needed to dry out. Plus we thought Nell could use some fresh air.

I pulled in to the parking lot, parked, and walked around to let Nellie out. She didn’t know how to jump from the seat, so I had to lift her out.

As I did, I felt her sides begin to heave. Uh oh.

“Gotta hurry!!”  I shouted.

I plopped her down like a sack of potatoes in the adjoining parking space. And up came Nellie’s happy meal from the morning.

As we observed with Meghan later, the trip really could have been worse.

* * *

Meghan, Nellie, me, Cindy.

The rest of the drive was relatively uneventful. Oh sure, the slobber continued. I worried Nellie would dehydrate. How could she not? But we all took turns in the back seat, and she managed to not barf again. (Although when she got home, she drank a river … and lost it all in the living room. In terms of paper towels, that one was a two-roller.) 

She quickly settled in. Her first trip to the back yard was entirely contemplative. She slowly made her way from corner to corner, sniffing every leaf, every rock, inspecting our deck, the pool’s edge, my barbecue tools … mentally cataloging it all. This was her territory now.

And she and Linus get along … sort of. They’ve only now started to play, though Linus isn’t quite used to a giant white paw gently landing on his back. He’s more comfortable with the rough-and-tumble that Riley provided.

Days later, I sent Sarah an email with the photo at the top of this post … an angelic Nellie sleeping.

“Thought I’d send this photo of the pup asleep at home. We’ve named her Nellie. We’re in love.”

Meghan had noted in the car shortly after we named her that “Nellie” is a variant of “Eleanor” and has its roots in the meaning, “A shining light.”

Sarah wrote back.

“This makes me smile! Great picture!”

Then she added this serendipitous surprise:

“My mother’s name was Nellie. I bet she is smiling.”

I bet so.  As are we … such a gift. 

Merry Christmas, all.

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Visit the Milk and Honey Farms new-puppy gallery by clicking here!  You'll find us.

For a short video of a backseat perspective, click here. 

And to see our then-unnamed pup play with her buddies, click here.