My online “shelter
stalking” finally caught my husband’s attention. Either that, or the sweet cat I recently attempted
to bring home (which aggravated his allergies until he couldn’t breathe and I
had to bring it back feeling all kinds of guilty), made him gift me a puppy
last week.
Our little Daphne
came into our veterinary hospital for a first puppy check and one of our
technicians showed her to my husband. He
texted me, asking if I wanted a puppy. I
said, ‘Yes! Yes! Yes!’. He said he’d send me a
picture first. I said, ‘Don’t
bother. I don’t care what it looks
like. I’m coming to take it home’. And I did—two soft ears, four busy puppy
feet, and a million needle-sharp teeth.
Her favorite place to sleep is on
top of a pile (yes, a pile) of my kids’ shoes by the front door. Her least
favorite place to sleep is inside her kennel at night, but she’s getting
progressively better at it—with the help of Benadryl, my Nora Jones CD (based
on the theory that her singing makes me feel very, very sleepy), and taking her
for a “drag” (the more accurate description of our walks thus far) right before
bed.
Little
Daphne has been very good about the house training. I don’t know why, but puppy potty training
has always been so much easier for me than child potty training. Wait, I know why—it’s called
“biscuit-treats”. I’ve been blessed with
dogs that are incredibly food motivated and kids that are just as stubborn as I
am.
Now that I’ve got four ‘kids’ to watch over (two dogs, a
boy, and a girl—and, no, I’m not counting my husband), I feel like I’m saying ‘NO’,
‘DON’T’, and ‘STOP THAT’ every single minute of every single day.
“Daphne, don’t yank on Daisy’s
tail. Stop going after Daisy’s
rawhide. Find one of your own to eat. Don’t annoy Daisy. Don’t bite my fingers, Daphne. Here’s a stick. Put that in your mouth, you little land
shark.”
Of course, I praise her, too. “Good potty outside. Here’s a treat, Daphne.” (Sigh.)
“Here’s a treat for you, Daisy, for standing there and staring at me, with
that string of drool dangling out of your mouth.”
I hear my six-year-old son
instructing her as well. “Don’t eat my
man-man’s. Don’t eat my tator head.”
I inform Fred that if he doesn’t
learn to pick up his toys, the puppy will destroy them. Hey,
maybe I can use this to my advantage!
At night, the version is: “Kennel up, puppy. Good dog.
Here’s a treat. Stop
barking. Stop barking. Stop barking.” (Sigh.)
“Where’s my earplugs?”
Another problem with the night time
pottying is that I hate going outside in the dark at 3 a.m. It’s not the sleep deprivation that gets to
me, it’s the fact that every single horror movie I’ve ever watched replays in
my mind the instant I’m surrounded by the solid darkness. It’s silly, but as my dogs frolic and play I
scour the shadows for freaky people wearing paper bags over their heads.
And, no, my
dogs won’t protect me. They’d be too
busy asking for treats. I’m on my own
against any and all Boogeymen.
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