Growing pains

We adopted Charlie when he was all of eight weeks and the most pressing issue was teaching him to go potty outside, not inside.  My husband David, it soon became clear, was oblivious to Charlie’s night time wimpering, so I was the one getting up two or three times a night to take the poor pup out to do his business.

Back then, we thought his biting was cute, if a bit painful thanks to his baby teeth.  And the fact that he liked to gnaw on my flip flops was not really an issue if you don’t mind slobbery leather (I don’t).

Then came Charlie’s real teeth and suddenly his chewing was certainly NOT adorable.  And there went several pairs of flip flops, one very expensive Giuseppi Zanotti stiletto and half a pair of Salvatore Ferragamo flats that had been to the cobbler multiple times.  After Charlie was through, no one could repair the damage.

Still, I chalked up all the gnawing (with a seemingly singular focus on Mommy’s stuff) to the fact that we were relocating to Las Vegas — which meant Charlie checked into Zoo Keepers for more than two weeks, while David and I looked for a new house.

On our road trip, Charlie picked up a few more bad habits:  Drinking from the toilet bowl, for example.  David likes to blame Charlie’s misdeeds on me (I do spend more time with the pooch, it’s true), but I’m not entirely sure how I can be at fault for Charlie one day deciding that his water bowl was less interesting than the toilet.

I will take some credit for Charlie’s optimistic interest in human food.  Thanks, I’m guessing, to a liberal feeding policy on our trip (rice and beans, tacos, ham sandwiches, french fries), Charlie has also started to steal food off our plates.  This one is a big no-no, especially since the Pad Thai he ate the other day has led to what David likes to call explosive diarrhea.  I could say more, but I’ll just leave it at that.

As Charlie gets settled into our new home (and hopefully learns not to drink from toilets or steal human food), I wonder what his next set of challenges will be.  Welcome to the pre-teen years.

Puttin’ on the Ritz

Desert oasis

Charlie is not technically allowed at the month-old Ritz-Carlton just outside Tucson (he’s a few pounds too big for the 25 lb. limit), but allowances were made and as we tumbled out of the car after our 500+ mile drive from Marfa, I could tell that Charlie was going to like it here.  But, first things first:  We hadn’t taken a potty break in several hours.  As our bellman David attempted to give us the grand tour, Charlie started to sniff in a way that said “It’s time to poop!”  There’s really no graceful way to communicate this fact, but it was becoming very clear that the alternative was my pup taking care of business on the brand new carpeting.

Once that was out of the way, there was a quick run to get in (during which Charlie managed to snag himself with cactus-like burrs), a shower, drinks by the fire, then dinner (and more drinks) at Core, and then deep deep slumber.

So, it’s really just now (at 5:11 am as Charlie dreams about chasing squirrels and chunks of cheese, no doubt), that I’m able to fully process the resort. With a Jack Nicklaus-designed course that’s quickly becoming a favorite on the pro circuit, it’s undoubtedly a golf resort, but it’s also much more than that.  For one, there’s a 235 foot water slide that plummets four stories into the “adventure pool” (as distinguished from the spa pool and chaise lounge pool).  Then there’s the gleaming 17,000 square foot spa and state of the art fitness center with windows looking out into the Sonoran desert — not to mention miles and miles of well cut trails on the property’s 600 and some acres.

But what separates this resort from other area resorts and even other Ritz Carlton hotels is its sense of place.  This hotel feels like it belongs here — from the burnt orange, rust, and cactus green accents to the museum of Native American artifacts and hand woven headboards.  Sitting outside last night, huddled by the fire with a glass of Pinot Noir as the sun disappeared behind the mountains, I felt as if I were at a private ranch (with first class staff who made sure my glass was never empty and gouda croquettes kept on coming).

This is a place I will definitely come back to.

Dallas is for dog lovers

Charlie has been to a few hotels in his short life (since we don’t know his exact birthday, I’ve made him a Christmas baby, which makes him just over a year).  And despite the fact that all the hotels we’ve stayed at have claimed to be “pet friendly,” some have certainly been friendlier than others.

For our last two nights in Shreveport, for example, Charlie and I bunked up at the Hilton, where dogs are tolerated, but certainly not welcomed (most of the staff treated my pup like he was a snarling pit bull).  Meanwhile, at the Mansion on Turtle Creek several months back, the staff rolled out the red carpet, spoiling Charlie with treats and offering to play with him while I ran errands.

I wasn’t sure what to expect from the W — where even the lobby is a scene.  But it quickly became clear that Charlie was going to get along just fine (even if the blue lights in the lobby did freak him out a little bit).  There were no doggie beds available, but Charlie made himself at home in the bathroom (on the very fuzzy bathmat) after a long run on the Katy Trail.  While I was out gallavanting with my friend Karen — dinner at Tei An, followed by August: Osage County — until midnight, I hung a doggie tag on the door letting everyone know Charlie was inside (just in case he started barking at his shadow or the views of the city skyline).

We were in Dallas for less than 24 hours, but Charlie was as comfortable as is possible for a one year old in a new city.  So far, Dallas is two for two.

T&L Pet Travel Tips

In the January issue of Travel & Leisure, Kathryn O’Shea-Evans lays out six secrets to creature comfort on the road.  Though not super impressed with the tips (which ranged from bring vaccination records and ID collars to take a walk after you get off the plane), I did discover there’s an entire section of T&L dedicated to doggy travel.  Check out this link for more info.

New Year’s Eve

Charlie and I are flying solo tonight, which isn’t as bad as it seems, although I am looking forward to 2010 when my husband will not have to work weekends and holidays.  Tonight, the eve of 2010, will involve a big glass of red wine (most likely before the 5:00 cocktail hour) and dinner of cheese, cured meats, and chocolate.  For Charlie, it means a few extra treats, like bacon bits that I saved from the morning griddle, a handful of peanuts, and chunks of Jarlsberg cheese.  We’ll watch a few episodes of the West Wing (Charlie is very political) and most likely not even make it until midnight–which is just fine by us.

See Charlie eat rocks

A few months ago, I took my fancy new camera, a Leica DLUX, and snapped a few pictures of Charlie in action.  Check out the film here:

Introducing Charlie Eisendrath

Editor at large

I always wanted a dog.  From the age of nine or so until I was old enough to know better, I asked for a puppy every birthday, every Christmas, and several times in between.  My mother, who is German and intrinsically averse to dirt, objected on grounds of cleanliness (or lack thereof).  And then there was college, a tiny apartment in New York, long days and longer nights, three moves in the span of a year, and a Jewish-Catholic wedding to plan.

A year ago, I was finally ready to make the plunge.

My husband David was, as always, very methodical about the decision. There were books on dog breeds, consultations with my father in law, and discussions about size (medium), sex (female), and hair color (not black).

I just wanted a puppy.  A fuzzy, squirmy little thing to snuggle in my lap and chew on my shoes and keep me company in our big house in Shreveport, Louisiana (where my husband and I have made a home for the past few years).  So, when I visited an abandoned litter of unknown breed, I promptly forgot all the things I was supposed to remember.

It would be easy to rewrite history and say that I knew immediately that Charlie (who was originally named Jerry after Mr. Garcia, but later renamed Charlie because of potential confusion with my name, Geraldine) was the one.  But the truth is, it took a while.  Out of the five, one was too aggressive, another too passive (she spent the whole time hiding behind her brothers and sisters).  I finally picked Charlie because of his size–he was the runt of the litter and it suddenly came to me that my husband had said we wanted a medium sized dog.  That I had explicit orders to adopt a girl eluded me completely.

A year later, Charlie is not at all what we thought he would be.  His floppy ears now stick straight up, his once golden fur is reddish, and DNA testing has revealed that he has not one iota of Retriever in him. He is neither the world’s best looking dog or the worst, though my husband’s Blackberry screensaver shows Charlie during his particularly awkward Yoda phase (when his ears literally stuck out perpendicular to his head).

This blog, inspired by John Steinbeck’s novel of a similar name, is about Charlie.  More specifically it’s about traveling with my 48 lb. mutt across America.  A travel writer, I have taken Charlie with me on a few trips–to Dallas, for example, where we stayed at the Mansion on Turtle Creek; or to New Orleans, where Charlie went into olfactory overdrive and practiced his bark on Bourbon Street.  And in the coming year, Charlie and I plan to have many more adventures (and surely mishaps).