At 4am this morning, I was standing in my driveway, staring up at the full moon and the bright night sky. No, I didn’t sleepwalk my way outside nor awake from a bad dream. I was watching my new puppy, Casey, pee. Even at that ungodly hour, he was so awake and chipper. He sniffed in endless circles until he found just the right blade of grass with the right scent to leave his mark. Then he followed it up with a healthy poop. Of course, I have to watch each poop to ensure it’s the right consistency, much like a new mother inspects her newborn’s poop.
And that got me thinking about how much a new puppy is like having a new baby. For the longest time I had a magnet on my fridge that read, “Once you have a baby, you can’t give it back.” Unfortunately, at times, I wish this weren’t also true for dogs.
I love my dog, don’t get me wrong. I love that he still looks like a large, fluffy cream-colored marshmallow. He’s a love bug. He loves me to scratch his belly. He’s fun to watch as he chases a bug or can’t maneuver going down the stairs and falls. I love his silly antics. I love watching him run: his back legs run almost perpendicular to his front legs, his ears flop and he has a lopsided smile on his face with his long tongue hanging to one side. Often, when he’s running directly to me, he can’t slow down fast enough and crashes into my legs. He’s hilarious.
I love how eager he is to please me. How I can train him to sit or come when I call. I love how he loves to hang out with me all the time. He’s great company. He doesn’t talk back. He’s a great listener. He keeps a good secret. I love watching him have fun with an empty paper towel tube. If only I could find such joy in something so simple.
On the other hand, I’m tired of getting up to walk him every night. Damn it, pee in your crate or hold it, I think when he wakes me. He also likes to dig in the dirt and bury things. Usually as I’m walking out the door, dressed for work, I have to stop and clean muddy paws and then my own muddy pants. He finds everything I don’t want him to find and eats it, like my dirty panties in the laundry basket. He’s like a Mexican jumping bean now, jumping up on my couch too. Each time I push him off. Then he jumps back on like a broken record. On, “Casey off!”. On, “Casey off!” On, “Casey off!” You get my drift…
Casey chews everything. My baseboards, my rugs, the girls’ stuffed animals, my robe, my pants legs, my shoes, and most deliciously, my arms and hands. Apparently, I’m a delicacy. Maverick and the girls are tasty treats but not so much as his favorite person, me. And when he gets fixated on teething on me, I have a hard time keeping my cool with him…it hurts! When I reprimand him, he thinks it’s a game, which leads to more human chewing. So much so that I toss him outside for a reprieve, which leads to freedom in the back yard and digging and dirty paws again. It’s a nasty cycle.
It’s reminiscent of all my new-mother suffering I had to endure when Maya came, especially the first few months. Luckily, one human year is equivalent to seven dog years. So this stage should be end much more quickly than with a human baby. However, that also means Casey is almost two human-years old. A toddler. Great. Now I’m beginning the terrible two’s. I’m in trouble.
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