Article May 19, 2008 Issue

DAISY DAYS

BY ALEXANDRA HAWLEY

Often in my career as a musician, a piece that's the most difficult to learn ends up being one of my favorites. The extra amount of work in delving deeply into its complexities brings with it the joy of accomplishment, and even a feeling of victory. I had a similar experience with the arrival of our yellow Labrador puppy.

My husband and I had had three Labradors at various times when our children were growing up, and though we'd gone about ten years without a dog, we thought we knew all about raising puppies—until Daisy came along. She started out as a silky, beige bundle of joy. Taking turns getting up with her in the night the first few weeks didn't bother us, because she just filled us with love.

But then she turned into an overly energetic, wild adolescent. She chewed anything—including our drip irrigation system, sprinkler heads, hoses, shrubs. She ate everything in sight—including berries, apples, oranges, tomatoes, acorns, rosebuds. Inside, she chewed off two corners of an Oriental rug, three corners of a leather piano bench, and part of a magazine rack.

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