When I was 11 I brought home my first dog, a black lab/mini schnauzer mix I fondly named Duffy. It was summer break, so my job was to get up with her every morning, feed her, train her, play with her, and most of all, bond with her. When I look back on her puppyhood, I don’t honestly remember too much of the daily details. A walk here or there, throwing the ball for hours, puppy class, fond things. Apparently what I forgot was the neediness, the whining, puppy teeth, anxiety over destroyed furniture, inability to find time to clean the floor or vacuum a room, and potty training.
Don’t get me wrong, I LOVE Oly. Everything I hoped for in a puppy. She’s absolutely adorable, surprisingly smart, loves to play fetch, she’s funny (yes dogs can be funny), and I especially love when she curls up and sleeps on my lap while I sip my morning coffee. The lady at Adopt-A-Pet (where we rescued her from) warned us that it would be like bringing home a new baby. Yeah, except picture a newborn that can crawl with surprising speed, BARKS, whines when she doesn’t get her way, and has wicked sharp teeth she uses on your clothes, furniture, and flesh.
What a cute baby.
Adam and I want to get all Cesar Millan on her ass, and we’re perfecting the ‘tchitch‘ noise Cesar makes sound so effortless for corrections, but of course, puppies will be puppies. Lucky for us, a lot of this oh-so-wonderful behavior we simply have to wait out. Oh, you wanted to read that magazine, NOPE, MINE NOW BIATCH! Arrg.
One thing is for sure, Oly has broken my unemployment sleep schedule. Gone are the mornings of sleeping in, laying in bed watching tv, and starting my day at noon. Now it’s me and the dog, standing in the rain at 7am, crouched down repeating over and over, “Oly, go potty.”
Ahhhh, this is the life.