The Puppy Basket

Baskets and country houses are natural companions, and old baskets are especially intriguing. It is fun to discover what an old basket was used for, who might have made it, or where it came from. Often form defines function, as in a "gizzard" or "fanny" basket. The fanny basket, with two capricious compartments separated by a deep crease, was designed to straddle a horse's neck just in front of the saddle, so that eggs could safely be carried to market. Other examples are the fisherman's creel, designed to fit snugly against the fisherman's side while keeping his catch cool, and feather bakets, often pear-shaped, with a narrow neck, and a lid, minimized "floating up" of the elusive down.

The list could go on and on, and a wide swath of utility, farm, and household baskets served multiple purposes. But it's not just the matter of a basket's function. I like the feel, the heft, the shape, and the smell of old baskets. Some are rough, simply made. Others are finely woven and finished. I like to hold the handmade handles and wonder how many others have used the basket. I wonder who grew the special willow, or who walked into the forest to cut the tree to be used for the splits or weavers. I like to imagine the basketmaker weaving and shaping the natural materials into a basket that is uniquely his or hers. In a way, every old basket carries the fingerprints of its maker, and traces of the persons who have used it. I once bought an old fish basket on the coast of North Carolina. It was a round basket woven with an open, hexagonal design. The handle was hand-cut and wrapped with fine reed. I could imagine a woman walking to the docks when the fishing boats came in from the sea, and choosing the fish she would cook for supper. When her basket was full, she might dip it in the salt water to rinse and refresh the fish. Then she'd walk home with her basket of fish, still dripping from the sea. The basket, when I bought it, was silvery gray with hints of iridescence caused by salt and seawater. Almost every basket stirs my imagination. And I always use them.

At an auction many years ago, I successfully bid on a splint basket. It was rectangular, almost a yard long and about ten inches deep. It was well made, sturdy, a rich tan. It had a firmly wrapped top rim with insert grips at each end. I bought it for a supersized picnic basket or for storing and toting whatever needs storing and toting. It went on many a picnic in the country and tailgate parties. I'd line it with a gingham cloth and fill it with containers of picnic fixings. It could hold everything needed for a fried-chicken-potato salad-sandwiches tpe picnic. It was a very handy basket.

When Nikki's puppies started tumbling around and were big enough to be handled, petted, and played with, the picnic basket became "the puppy basket," and this is the name it has retained. Kenneth would load the wiggling pups in the basket, and with Nikki right on his heel, bring the basket full of puppies to the sun porch. The sun porch had a brick floor, which we covered with newspapers. (It could also be hosed off.)

When the puppies and Nikki were brought inside, it was the "happy hour." Nikki seemed happy for a little break from her always-hungry offspring, the puppies were happy to explore the new territory, and we were happy to fool with the puppies. Friends and house guests loved the happy hour with the puppies. It was no surprise to me that dogs, cats, and other pets are being used today to cheer the elderly and the ill in convalescent homes, and in therapy to reach patients who have previously been unreachable. Anytime I was feeling gloomy, a visit with the puppies was a sure cure.

In the beginning, the five little pups would huddle in the basket until they were lifted out and placed on the floor. They wouldn't be on he floor long before someone would find a puppy irresistible and pick it up. In time, they'd come when called, unless distracted by another puppy who wanted to play. It was startling to hear such small creatures bark so sharply.

As the puppies grew, they'd stand on their hind legs and look over the side of the basket when being toted to the sun porch. Kenneth tried to keep them down in the basket, for fear they'd tumble over the side, but it was an impossible job. There never was an accident, as the puppies seemed to understand that the ride in the basket was temporary. The instant Kenneth set it on the floor, they'd try to scramble over the side.

By the time they were eight weeks old, the puppies were a heavy load in the puppy basket. And they were a heartwarming sight: healthy, curious, fat, and clumsy, with feet that seemed too big for their bodies, loppy eared and endearingly friendly. The two females and the three males were a basketful, a handful, and it was time to let them go. But letting them go, even to excellent homes, was tearful business. Tears were shed over each puppy that was taken away by a happy new owner. I have the basket still. And I wonder if some day, when I am gone and someone else takes the basket home, they will ever imagine that it is, for all time, a puppy basket. RWOL

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