The Day I Learned to Burp a Brittany

“What can I do? My doggy won’t eat!”

“You’ve got to burp him,” she said calmly. “Hold him upside down and gently pat his belly until he burps.”

Burp him?

I hung up the phone, picked up my five-week-old puppy, put him upside down like a baby, and gently patted his belly.

Then it happened.

B…U…R…P.
Deep. Loud. Impressive.

I stared at him. He stared back as if to say, Well… that helped.

I set him down in front of the four little bowls of kibble samples the pet store had given me. Four different brands, because the little guy hadn’t eaten a single bite since I brought him home the day before.

Did I say magic? He dove into the closest bowl and devoured it like a starving wolf.

I grabbed the phone and dialed back. “You’re an angel,” I said. “How are you doing with yours? Did you name her yet?”

“I’m still thinking,” she replied.

“I’ve never seen a dog with such a pinkish-brown nose or bright baby-blue eyes before,” I said, still staring at the tiny miracle.

“That’s because he’s a newborn,” she laughed.

But to understand how I ended up burping a Brittany puppy like a baby, we need to start a few weeks earlier.

———

Late one night I first saw Karen at a downtown jazz club. She was sitting at the bar, completely absorbed in the guitarist on stage. The music was smooth, the room dimly lit, and she seemed lost in the sound.

My friends nudged me. “Go invite her over.”

So I nervously did.  We hit it off immediately.

A few days later, I was telling my veterinarian friend Bruce about her while we were having coffee.

“She’s renting a condo townhouse,” I said. “And she says she’s lonely without a dog.”

Bruce nearly jumped out of his chair.

“I have the perfect solution!”

He leaned forward like a man about to deliver fantastic news.

“We’re nursing ten puppies whose mother was just killed by a car. They’re only two weeks old, but bring your new girlfriend by to see them.”

Seeing my puzzled look, he added, “They’re calm, loving, and great apartment dogs. Just the breed for her.”

I had never even heard of a Brittany. In those pre-Google days. Information about breeds wasn’t exactly at your fingertips. But Bruce knew dogs, and I trusted him.

So I called Karen.

———

We walked into the veterinary clinic. She stopped in her tracks.

“Oh my God.”

The scene was surreal. Veterinary aides were walking around holding the tiniest brown-and-white creatures imaginable. Each puppy was happily sucking on a miniature baby bottle. It looked like a nursery.

Karen stood there, utterly enchanted.

Two weeks later, the puppies were weaned — but barely old enough to take home. When we arrived, all ten were tumbling around together in a large blanketed box.

“Holly moly,” Karen laughed. “They all look alike!”

Then one little female stopped moving. She looked up at Karen. The moment lasted only a second, but it felt like something passed silently between them. Karen looked at me, seemingly possessed. She didn’t have to say a word. She had been chosen.

Now I’ll admit something. Those puppies were irresistible. I loved dogs and had several before — a Golden Retriever and a Dalmatian — but my business required much travel. Getting a dog right now was not exactly a responsible decision.
I tried to stay strong. But you know the classic line every salesman uses: “Just take it home for a few days.”

Karen and I looked at each other. Neither of us said a word, but we were clearly thinking the same thing — A girl for you… a boy for me… oh how happy we four will be.

A little while later, we walked out carrying two tiny puppies. Two tiny, magical magnets that would pull our lives together.

At least that was the idea …

Karen named her puppy Mona — after that famous painting.

Since the breed came from Brittany, France, I thought I had a clever idea. “How about Norman D.?” I suggested – Get it?

That suggestion died instantly.

A few nights later, with Brittany still on my mind, I dreamed about The Three Musketeers adventuring in Brittany, France.

I awoke with a start: That’s it. – Touché – Perfect.

And so my little Brittany became Touché. Although Touché did not exactly begin life as a dream dog.

His baby-blue puppy eyes eventually turned a deep, mysterious brown, and his nose darkened as well – dark brown – not black like most dogs.

What didn’t take long to notice was his personality. Touché was the friskiest dog I had ever met. He and Mona adored each other like siblings.

Karen and I, however, slowly drifted apart. The puppy magic magnetism between us faded over time. Is that a law of physics?

But then, something else happened. Touché and I became inseparable. Bruce had been absolutely right about the breed. Brittanies are pure affection. Whenever people came near, Touché’s little bobbed tail wagged so violently it shook his entire body.

Especially in the presence of pretty women.

In fact, he would get so excited he sometimes peed on everything in front of him.

My friends started calling him my “chick magnet.”

They weren’t wrong. Almost a hundred percent success!

The rest of that year flew by, but not without adventure.

I still traveled frequently for business, but my wonderful next-door neighbors helped care for Touché while I was away. Communication in those days was primitive compared to today’s cellphones and internet. Whenever I could find a phone, I would check for messages from my office. Often, there would be one from my neighbor.

“Touché’s fine,” she’d say. “But he ate his bed again… and there’s quite a mess in your house.”

Apparently, teething gives puppies a powerful urge to chew absolutely everything. Beds. Furniture. Shoes. Everything was fair game.

Then Christmas arrived, and I learned something new. Wrapped presents are apparently edible!

———

In the following February, the phone rang. It was Karen. We hadn’t spoken since our breakup.

“Do you remember the puppies were born on March sixteenth?” she asked. “Maybe we could celebrate their birthday together?”

“March sixteenth,” I repeated, pausing for a moment. “Yeah… I suppose we could celebrate their birthday.

San Diego has some of the best dog beaches anywhere. Our favorite was Fiesta Island in Mission Bay – a huge off-leash paradise of sand dunes and warm bay water. On March sixteenth, we returned to the same place where the puppies had first learned to run.

I arrived first.

As I waited in a sandy valley between the berms, a little brown-and-white head slowly appeared over the ridge.

Then Karen.

Then suddenly — bedlam.

The two siblings exploded toward each other as if they had never been separated. Months apart meant absolutely nothing. Pure Brittany joy.

Karen and I tried to keep our conversation polite and neutral, but the Brittany magic had other plans. Within days, we were laughing again. And Mona, it turned out, had been even more mischievous than Touché.

Karen lived only three blocks from the Dog Beach. One day, Mona crossed an invisible boundary line at the beach, and Mona got nabbed. Karen received an expensive county citation.
Another day, Mona spotted an open church door and sprinted straight down the aisle of a Catholic church – all the way to the altar.

On yet another occasion, she ran upstairs into an open condo and clamored throughout the neighbor’s pristine white carpeted apartment. The dog-hating resident reported the incident immediately.

Fines. Warnings. HOA complaints. But Karen was a loving stalwart. I guess Bruce was wrong about calm and apartment-friendly.  

Now, the magical magnets brought us together again, and the dogs had paradise – a large yard, a swimming pool, and endless room to run. Heaven for two Brittanies at Casa Mio.

By the end of that year, Karen and I were married at my sister’s house in a cozy Christmas wedding. A glowing tree shimmered behind us, filling the room with warm holiday light. Karen and I stood there in our formal attire while the true architects of the occasion took their places. Mona carried flowers as the bridesmaid, and Touché, wearing a proud black bow tie, stood beside me as my Best Dog.

Looking back now, I sometimes think the two little Brittanys had the whole thing planned from the beginning.
Touché and Mona lived long, adventurous lives and gave us countless joyful moments. They were always there through life’s ups and downs.

Karen later became an American Brittany Rescue volunteer, helping place rescued dogs in loving homes. And we both became devoted Brittany people. How could anyone not be?

Because once a Brittany enters your life… there’s no going back.

Since then, we’ve had four pairs of them. Always a boy and a girl.

But every adventure has a beginning. And mine began the day I learned something I never expected to learn in life. That sometimes the most important skill a man can acquire … is how to burp a Brittany puppy.

Because that little puppy named Touché didn’t just eat after that first burp. He opened the door to a lifetime of memorable adventures … as that was just the beginning.