Puppy love
Photo by Stephanie Bartz
What were we thinking? Since we lost our Boston terrier to cancer last October, Jay has often spoken wistfully of having another puppy “some day.” When he finally retired in June, it occurred to me that perhaps that “some day” had finally arrived.
By coincidence, my dear friend Lisa has been recently sucked in by puppy power. A friend sent her a photograph of the one remaining ‘free puppy’ in a litter produced by an indiscretion between two neighboring canines of dubious parentage.
“We went to look at some puppies,” I told her on the fateful Sunday afternoon before Jay and I committed ourselves to a stint in doggie Hell.
“Me too,” she responded. “Let me send you a picture of him.”
Minutes later I stared at the fuzzy little bundle who sat, bolt upright and asleep on the grass. “It’s a bluetick hound,” I told her.
“It can’t be,” she said, “The mom is a border collie/husky mix and the dad is mostly black lab. What are you looking at?”
“A bug,” I told her. ‘Bug’ is the tag given to Boston Terrier/pug mixes. The particular bug that had caught our fancy had a stubby, Boston tail, pug ears and decidedly Beaglesque coloring.
We both managed to hold out for a week. The following Sunday I received an all-too-familiar sounding phone call.
“Guess what? Hold on a sec… NO! No bite! We have a pup… NO! No peeing! Oh no! Hold on a minute… Sorry. Anyway, his name is … oops, hold on… “ (crashing noise in background).
Since the same thing was happening at our house, I had no trouble guessing the rest.
It has been almost 11 years since we raised our last puppy, but we remembered the basic ground rules:
1. Put all chewables out of reach, even things that you could not imagine being chewable, i.e. computer cords, the decorative chrome trim strips on the dishwasher, and the cast iron dog doorstop in the den.
2. Establish firm guidelines. These include:
A) Do not chase kitty.
B) Do not bite your sister.
C) If it isn’t in your bowl, don’t eat it
D) Do not look at kitty.
E) Do not even think about kitty.
F) No peeing anywhere that there is not grass.
My mother gave birth to her three children with eight years between each of us. It has always been my contention that it took her that long to forget the years of sleep deprivation, and my theory has only been reinforced since Lizzie came to live with us.
After three days Jay and I looked and felt so haggard that we could barely stand to confront the bathroom mirror, but Lizzie was in fine form. When not galloping in figure-eights around the backyard and gnawing on everything not nailed down, she was collapsed in her bed, head hanging off the edge, a fine thread of drool hanging from one floppy lip.
The cats are remarkably blasé about the whole thing. They glare at her, then sigh resignedly and retreat to their window hammock or the cat tree for a nap, and when Lizzie is blessedly asleep in her crate, Sadie, our tiny tabby, likes to sit atop the crate and dangle one foot through the bars. Blossom, our aged Bug, has also been surprisingly patient, snarling occasionally when provoked beyond endurance, but regarding the wee one with the demeanor of a doting aunt.
It’s been three weeks now, and Lizzie is down to one nightly outing. Jay and I are no longer on the verge of collapse, although we synchronize our nap with Lizzie’s afternoon siesta, which makes us better able to function. Housebreaking is coming along, and there is only an occasional memory lapse where ‘Don’t bother kitty’ is concerned. We’re resigned to the concept of collateral damage, so we just keep putting our shoes on top of the clothes hamper and rejoicing that we like short dogs best.
There’s also one very important thing that we’ve been reminded of since Lizzie came to be a part of the family.
Even when nothing else is right, it’s impossible to be sad when you have a puppy.
