CULTURE CLASH! A Lowchen Among Old English - Letters From Lily

As noted, my name is Lily. Maybe. Or it could be Cookie. Lillith and Lily-monster feature heavily, though I object strenuously to the latter – which I’m assured is said strictly in affectionate jest, as there is nothing monstrous about me. I am, in fact, an almost criminally adorable and affectionate puppy, just short of four months old as of this writing, which I leverage to my advantage every second of the day. And mainly I still respond best to pup-pup-pup. I’ll let you know when I have settled on my ultimate name.
I am, I’m told, a Lowchen. The upright – more on her later – having only nominally researched my breed, as one does when one makes major life choices, has her own theories about the breed’s origins, which somehow involve creatures as disparate as cats, squirrels, bunnies, racoons and, impossibly, gremlins. Presumably there is some variation of dog in there somewhere. That is my way of saying if you are looking for legitimate Lowchen specific knowledge, she is not your source.
Her breed of choice – before me, of course – is Old English Sheepdogs. So that’s what I’m dealing with here: a marginally herding oriented human surrounded by big, hairy, some might say slobbery, not infrequently loudly opinionated beasts with minimal body awareness. Let me tell you, I have my work cut out for me.
My first month here was pretty uneventful, if one discounts the upright’s constant marveling at how ‘easy’ I am as a puppy. By this she means I slept through the night from day one and seemed almost magically advanced in the potty-training department for my age. I’m not sure what she was expecting, really, and feel this does not speak well of the breed I share the joint with, if her expectations were set this low.
She also mumbled something about waiting for the other shoe to drop, and me to promptly munch on it. In truth, she does leave shoes around at a disturbing rate and I do, on occasion, grab one and run around with it. But, mostly, I can’t do the amount of chewy damage a comparably aged Old English puppy can, so this has not noticeably changed her slovenly ways.
What I CAN do is put everything, and I do mean, EVERYTHING in my mouth. This has laid bare her iffy cleaning standards. It is amusing what tiny specks of detritus can be found just floating around in some corner. And hilarious to watch her shriek “omg! What’s in your mouth??!!” and then trade me for something better. She will either learn to be a more exacting housekeeper or continue to reward me for my diligence. Either is fine with me.
She claims her lack of housekeeping attention is seasonal, and that her attention, as an avid gardener - among other weird character traits - is why I am blessed with constant inside munching opportunities. Outside is not much better. Let me rephrase that: outside is a haven of heavenly scents and flavors.
My first week I strolled around, pretending to walk on a leash, casually snacking on any and every available passing leaf. I discovered that chervil is rather snacky, dill is not for me, and as for tarragon, I can take it or leave it. The Old English, I’m told, like to focus on more substantive vegetative edibles, such as sugar snap peas and, above all, cherry tomatoes – a variety of which is named after one of the English residents who preceded me. Now, the resident boy sheepdog does his best to try to pee on the basil – a huge, huge no-no, I’m told, which is why it’s definitely on my bucket list. But the herbs are otherwise largely beneath them. Good! More for me.
Apart from the obvious tidy division of snacking duties, living with English dogs does present some challenges, and I don’t just mean the obvious language barrier. I love to play. I would love to play with them. But they need some serious work first.
Luke, the token boy English, is probably the most promising. He naturally thinks I’m adorable. Which we’ve already established I am. So clearly a high IQ dog with distinct playmate potential, once he learns to place his huge paws more mindfully.
Jessie presents her own challenges. For one, she’s closer to my age and, despite being two years old, is inexplicably known as “Puppy” (a title I am told tradition dictates she will hold until the next English puppy comes along). Now, clearly, I am the resident puppy and should be referred to as such. Upright, in her endless confused state, thinks she has cleverly resolved this issue by referring to us as “Big Puppy!” and “Little Puppy!” Which is, let’s be honest, just ridiculous.
Jessie tells me she thinks she remains frozen in her perennial puppy status because at just over a year old she was diagnosed with blastomycosis and lost her eyesight, along with a thriving show career and any future agility possibilities, which is apparently where I come in to pick up the slack. She says she holds no ill-will towards me, and that we will get along just fine, as long as upright remembers that any time I get a new toy, SHE also gets a new toy.
The not seeing part does render the carefully placing of paws goal a little more challenging. I mean, her ears and nose work fabulously well. But I can be somewhat stealth and, lord knows, given my frequent bathing in the English’s absurdly big water bowls, no one can accuse me of being particularly odorous. So we will take our time learning how to share paw space.
The biggest challenge will be Leia. She needs a lot of work. A lot. She wants to chase, she loves to body slam, she’s obnoxiously vocal about this obsession and just generally ill-behaved in play. Even, I’m told, by English standards. Her brother, Luke, who used to be on the receiving end of her bull in a china shop machinations, warned me about her on day one. In other words, even other English don’t enjoy playing with her. How bad is that??!!
When I arrived she was all excited about the prospect of playing what she referred to as Lowchen bowling, which I’m assured by upright is not and will never be a thing. I mean, the good news is that she is not grabby with the mouth. And, let’s face it, this is a very good thing, because it’s a pretty big mouth. And I don’t mean just vocally. She just likes to slam into things for no good reason I can discern.
Granted, I, too, love to chase and be chased. But I am sensibly protective when it comes to my body parts. I can’t imagine what she gets out of this and have already, from the inside of ex-pens, tried to work with her. She doesn’t intimidate me. I am happy to run around and be chased from within the safety of a fence, dodging through little puppy tunnels and generally giving her a run for her money. And, being a natural born educator, I have tried all kinds of calming behaviors, asking her to take it down a notch. But she is oblivious.
I confess I am a little confounded by her counterproductive behavior. The more she wants to play, the more obnoxious she becomes, and the less she gets to play. It’s a vicious circle, really. I asked her why she is so over the top and she loudly declared: “because I am Princess Leia!”
OK, first of all, calm the hell down, bitch. And, secondly, and more importantly, to quote the late, great Aretha: “I like being queen myself.”
So just call me Queen Lily. Master of my universe and sovereign of the English. They just don’t know it yet.

Respectfully submitted,
Lily the Lowchen