The puppy is still cute.
In the 21 days we’ve known him, he’s spent about nine of them asleep.
But now his wide-awake hours are expanding exponentially.
He barks at his toys when he’s happy. He barks when the cat won’t play with him. He barks in his sleep. Otherwise, he quietly studies us as if he were a mad scientist in a past life.
The things we need to pay attention to include:
Poo on the carpet.
Pee on the woodstove plate.
Piranha puppy teeth on electronics charging cords.
Juggling the knowledge that our “feral” cat will just as soon eviscerate him for merely gazing upon her beautiful face, while our super sweet, loveable cat – the one with the fast parasympathetic nervous system – will resign herself to his use of her as an unwitting lounge chair with barely a me-OWW.
We have been working on our consistency.
We clean up his mistakes without comment.
We praise his triumphs with excitement and treats.
We replace the things he shouldn’t chew on with things that are his to tear to pieces.
And we remove him from the cat and bring him to the furnishings where he’s allowed to languish.
Our repetitive interventions are beginning to feel like a workout.
But I don’t remember ever loving any puppy this much. I’m sure I must have, I’d just forgotten the feeling that comes over you when a bundle of fluff high-steps into the room like a miniature pony, grabs his favorite toy, and then drags it around the room in zoom-y-circles until he abruptly collapses into a faux nap on the rug.
He hasn’t learned his name. Or how to beg. Or the names of words we hope he will one day love: Like “dinner,” and “walk,” and “treat,” and “outside.”
The only word we’re confident he knows is “sit.”
I can see it register in his eyes as he looks up at me as I mouth the word, and he lowers his haunches.
I hand over the treat to his soft mouth.
I hung a set of bells on the door that leads into the fenced backyard, and of his own volition, he has begun to ring them when he needs or wants to go out.
We were hoping he’d be a dog-door candidate, since we have one, and the last few animals would rather have a root canal than let a door flap swap them on the backside.
He’s halfway there. We let him out the bell door, and he lets himself back inside by the flap.
It occurs to me that he may be training us, as we always get up to lurch over him with a humorously macabre sounding “You rang?”
Perhaps it’s just the timing. We are ready to welcome this mini multiplier of uncomplicated joy because so much around us has felt like unnecessary hardship.
This pup is a breath of fresh air.
Even the long-suffering cat, who has met all of his shenanigans with soft paws and softer squawks, has shown she has a sense of humor, too. Last night, while we were chilling out on the couch, Kitty just walked right on over and sat smack dab on top of him.
I swear, she was smiling.
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