Read The Puppy Diaries: Raising a Dog Named Scout for Free Online Page B

with Marian inviting all three white goldens into the back of her car, where she split her last treat three ways.
    We copied the Marian technique at home, getting Scout to sit and be patient before bestowing a treat for good behavior. We faithfully spent part of each day training Scout, helping her to learn her name and a few basic commands. Henry also made a point of giving her a ride in the car as often as possible, which at first provoked a lot of howling and braying until Scout finally realized that getting in the car usually meant a trip to Marian’s or doing something else fun. And in preparation for Scout’s eventual arrival in New York, Henry would take her in the afternoon for rides up and down the elevator at the local commuter train station.
    Scout usually spent her downtime in the giant stand of lilacs just beyond our kitchen door, which Henry had enclosed with chicken wire. Aside from providing shade all day, the fenced-in area around the lilacs gave Scout the opportunity to explore her own little forest, bury toys, and chase Henry as he ran around the perimeter. One fine morning Scout was napping in the lilacs and Henry was reading nearby when a UPS deliveryman arrived. “Must be nice,” the man remarked as he handed Henry the package. And, indeed, it was very nice.
    Bunny (left), Cyon (center), and Scout (right) in the back of Marian Spiro’s car
     
     
    Because my job as managing editor of the Times required that I spend most weekdays in my New York office that summer, I called Henry each afternoon to hear the latest news from his and Scout’s farm walk or Marian’s pool parties. Finally, in early August, I couldn’t stand missing so much of the fun and took a two-week vacation.
    I was elated by the prospect of spending an uninterrupted stretch of time with Scout. I was also eagerly awaiting the visit of my friend Mariane Pearl and her seven-year-old son Adam. Mariane was the widow of Danny Pearl, the Wall Street Journal reporter who had been my friend and colleague in the Journal ’s Washington bureau. Adam was the son Danny had never met, since Danny had been kidnapped and murdered in Pakistan by al-Qaeda while Mariane was pregnant.
    Adam loved the beach, superheroes, baseball, and
dogs. He was excited to meet our new puppy, and I was anxious for Scout to learn how to behave around a child, since Buddy had sometimes growled at visiting toddlers, which scared them and alarmed me. When the Pearls arrived in Connecticut from New York, Adam brought Scout a Yankees dog shirt as a gift and was determined to teach her how to play left field in Wiffle ball games.
    Under Adam’s tutelage, Scout became an extremely fast and adept outfielder, but she never got the hang of dropping the ball after she caught it. In my dual role as pitcher and mediator, I would usually have to negotiate a trade, giving her a treat in return for the ball.
    It was on this field of dreams that Scout had her first big mishap. One sweltering afternoon, she took her customary position in far left field. As I pitched and Adam endured a long series of balls, hitless swings, and foul tips, sap from a pine tree dripped all over Scout. When Adam saw what had happened, he cried out, “Scoutie looks like a dalmatian!” She was a terrible, sticky mess, and after dragging her into the house I scoured the Internet for remedies. Once I discovered the recommended treatment, I dabbed the spots of tar with olive oil and peanut butter. By the end of this tedious process, Scout was once again blond, but she smelled like a peanut butter sandwich.
    Our house wasn’t far from Long Island Sound,
and during Adam’s visit we often took Scout for walks on the beach. She was wary of the surf, but she liked to splash along the shoreline and let the water rise up to her belly. We were all thrilled when Adam threw a stick and Scout dove in, retrieved the stick, and paddled back to shore. Then she wouldn’t give up the stick, but we nonetheless celebrated