By Labor Day, I had it all planned out perfectly—at the beginning of November, when our calendar indicated life might slow down for a bit, we’d start looking for another dog, preferably a Siberian husky.
At that time, we’d check in with Husky House, the Matawan-based rescue organization where we got our last dog and, ideally, find another spayed, house-trained dog about a year old, and adopt her.
At this first hint of a concrete plan, my wife, my kids and I each independently visited the Husky House website to see the dogs available for adoption, to get a sense of what our options might be when the time came. Among the available dogs was a litter of eight puppies from Philadelphia whose mother had died. They were all named for characters from the play Hamilton, and the pleasant synchronicity of a “Hamilton” pup potentially arriving in Hamilton, New Jersey did not go unnoticed.
Husky House won’t even consider you for adopting a puppy unless you have previous experience with huskies, due to their high energy levels and tendency to escape. We met the experience requirement, but an interview, home visit, and reference checks were also needed before any adoption was approved. Since it seemed all this could take some time, I decided to submit an application and start the process, so that by the time November rolled around we’d be ready to go.
As part of the application, you’re required to list which dogs you’re interested in adopting. We still weren’t planning on getting a puppy, but after some lobbying from my kids, and because I had to specify a dog, I requested one of the Hamilton pups, with two more as alternate choices. I told the kids that although I’d submitted the application for a puppy, those dogs would probably be long gone by the time we were ready to bring one home.
The application was approved quickly—it turned out a home visit wasn’t necessary because they’d done one 12 years ago for our last dog, Ramona. Though I wasn’t looking to rush things, by the third week of September I was curious as to whether the pups were still around. My wife casually mentioned that she’d be okay with a puppy, and when I looked back at the “Adoptables” page, there were banners reading “Adoption Pending” under some of the pups’ photos. Was one of those pending adoptions ours?
I called and was told there were two female puppies left, and that once an application is approved, it’s first come, first served. It turns out I was not immune to puppy fever, so we committed to meeting “Peggy Skylar” later that week, and if all went well, taking her home. In a blur, we were buying a pet crate, toys, food, and everything else we’d need.
On the way to Husky House, I warned everyone not to engage with the other dogs—there’s not much more adorable, or potent, than an orphaned husky puppy, and I didn’t trust myself to say no to adopting a sibling if the full force of family pressure was turned on me. True to (modified) plan, we brought home one dog, “Peggy Skylar,” but had already decided to rename her. There was some inspiration from the “Hamilton” theme: one male sibling had been named “Alexander Hamilton,” so my wife suggested “Alexandra Hamilton” for our pup. We all liked it, but couldn’t agree on nicknames: “Alex” “Lex” and “Xander” seemed like male names, and though I liked a friend’s choice to name his female dog “Kevin,” I didn’t want to be constantly correcting people who understandably assumed ours was a male dog.
I’ve met several dogs named “Lexie,” so that didn’t seem unique enough. (Incidentally, I’ve never met a Rex, Spot or Fido—the three top names on my “dogs encountered” checklist.)
I had my own suggestions, quickly vetoed by my family, such as “Laika,” the name of the first dog to orbit Earth, back in 1957. (“Too morbid,” my wife objected, since unfortunately Laika didn’t survive the trip.) I also thought “Dogma” would make a great name: not only does it end in “a,” a common feature of female names, it would also allow for the satisfyingly literal nickname of “Dog.” But a consensus formed around my daughter’s suggestion “Lumi,” which means “snow” in Finnish and Estonian.
This has led to a variety of nicknames, none of them as succinct and elegant as “dog.” There’s “Lu,” “Lumus,” “Luminator,” and when she’s feeling sick or acting really cool in a mid-80s rap kind of way, “Ill-Luminator.” Her resemblance to the primates from Madagascar spawned “Lumi the Lemur.” When she’s getting into trouble, I’ll call her “Lumiya,” an obscure Star Wars villain, and when we’re in a rhymin’ rhythm, there are options for all occasions: “Zoomy Lumi” or “Looney Lumi” for periods of high energy, “Puny Lumi” and “Gloomy Lumi” for comments on her size or mood, and “Who, Me? Lumi,” after the inevitable destruction of personal belongings that comes with puppyhood, and a face that says, “I’m too cute to be guilty.”
There are a lot of great things about having a puppy, like their wide-eyed, novel perception of… everything. Every person on a sidewalk, car that passes by, or leaf blown by the wind is a fascinating experience. And the first few times, it makes you stop and try to see things that way, too. Then it gets old quick.
To describe our attempts at walking Lumi around the block, one first needs to alter the definition of “walk.” She’s the ultimate “Lookie-Lu,” constantly pausing for further study at storm drain grates, street signs, tree roots, and cracks in the sidewalk. What should be a ten minute experience runs closer to half an hour. Curiosity killed the cat, but if this keeps up, it could endanger the livelihood of a certain dog as well.
When she does move forward, she enjoys taking her leash in her mouth, as if she’s the one calling the shots. (“Lumi the Leader.”) And she is—for at least the short term, life will revolve around her schedule, her needs, her desires. Puppies are hard work, but the enjoyment outweighs the exhaustion. So the future looks bright—one might even say “Lumi-nescent.”
Peter Dabbene’s website is peterdabbene.com. His poetry/photo book The Lotus Eater (and Other Poems) is available through Amazon.com for $20 (print) or $10 (ebook).
