Soon they will be gone, in new homes where I hope they will be loved.  This morning the first howl came at 5:30, the “puppy alarm” that said, in essence, if you don’t get up I’m going to make a mess.  So I shuffle downstairs, holding on to the memory of my warm bed.  I am met by their bright eyes, wagging tails and fiercely wriggling bodies.  I scoop them up, two in one armful, three in the next, and trundle them outside.  They lap my chin with their tender, pink tongues and I can smell their puppy breath.  I am met outside by a weak gray dawn, frosty air swirling around under my nightgown and snow licking at my slippered heels.  They shiver in the early morning, but I am resolved to help their new homes love them by helping to housetrain them.  They have slept quietly all night, now it is my turn to suffer.  We pad through the garden, where, in the fine weather of the past week, they have decimated this year’s crop of spring flowers.  Headless daffodils nod to me, shattered crocus lie like bits of colored paper.  They have loved the yard, investigating the dog tunnel, playing in the garden, seeing and smelling their bright, new world.  But now it’s early, and cold.  They’ve all gone to the bathroom, so I call them back into the warmth of the house.  They struggle with the step, jump, jump, jumping until they make it into the sunroom.  They head for the giant geraniums, challenging the lower branches with tiny teeth, tearing off leaves and flowers.  I lure them into the kitchen with a pan of food.  They dive in greedily, pushing, shoving, gobbling.  To the greedy go the spoils.  They eat until they fill, stomachs round and firm.  Then the lure of play catches them, and they wrestle and bite.  Fierce puppy fights ensue, growling, snarling battles of will.  When finished, the victor moves on to a new challenger, the loser walks away.  No blood shed, no hard feelings.  I am on my second cup of coffee, chasing away the sleep with caffeine.  I eat my breakfast, then mop up puddles.  They help, grabbing the paper towels and playing tug of war.  I do my dishes and cleanup, dancing when they nip my ankles.  They pursue me across the kitchen from task to task.  I have adopted the “puppy shuffle”, sliding my feet rather than picking them up to avoid stepping on tiny toes.  Finally they begin to wear down, congregating under the kitchen table to gnaw on the legs, then collapsing into sleep.  I pick up their slack bodies and lay them in their crates.  Peace reigns.  The silence is complete, and unbroken by the sounds of their play.  It will be like this when they are gone, peaceful and empty in the same moment.  My time will again be my own, not commandeered by their insistent demands, not filled with protecting and watching them grow.  I will miss them.

Sue Holsinger