We acquired a puppy a few months ago. Still working through those puppy habits. Early morning elimination excursions, multiple false alarms. We have turned into doting doggie parents, the likes of which I never thought I would become. He’s a fussy eater, so we’ve purchased and offered endless different kinds of kibble and wet food. We’ve been told that small dogs have deficient taste buds, so they’re much pickier about what they eat—unlike large dogs that would eat scrap metal if it were available. He has grown despite our failure as canine restaurateurs, so something is working.
Walks have been something the dog has grown to enjoy—most of the time. He still reverts to the occasional dead-in-his-tracks method of perambulating. We walk a little, he stops and holds his ground, I cajole and pull—sometimes have to pick him up, and we move a little farther. Eventually, he moves along at quite a pace, with his ears dancing in the wind and his proud little trot, looking up at me once in a while for a little reassurance. Yesterday, we approached a woman with a leaf blower. She stopped while we walked by, and once we were about a house away, she turned it on again, and the dog lifted off the ground in search of a landing strip far from the noise. He landed prematurely when he reached the length of his leash. I’m sure he was traumatized. I was grateful the leash was around my wrist and not loose in my hands or I would have lost him for sure.
We have a temporary plywood barrier between the living room and family room so the cats can seek shelter as necessary and where the dog is barred access to the culinary morsels found in the cat litter—a tasty treat that is beyond my comprehension. We hope he will grow out of that habit—perhaps in the summer when the cats spend most of their time outside.
He sleeps with us. He began his tenure with us barricaded in the kitchen at night, but he has somehow managed to persuade us that our bed is a more appropriate venue for his nightly nap. We heard on the news that pets shouldn’t sleep with their owners for fear of contracting any of the variety of parasites they haul around on their bodies. (I need to wrap this up. My hacking cough is getting worse.) The news, however, may have arrived a little too late for us. We’ll try to persuade him to sleep in a bed on the floor.
All told, he is a squirmy and irresistible creature of white fuzz with the temperament of a docile child—eager to please. We relish the new experience--and so what if we’re foolishly overindulgent?