Real Life With Puppy
I like to present the positive side of Life.
I believe in the positive side of Life.
I believe in happiness and kindness and sweetness.
My husband calls me a Pollyanna, and I never minded when he calls me that, because seeing Life as sweet and Humanity as decent is a good way to survive.
But I am not unaware of the bad things. I choose not to give them much room in my life. But I know they are there.
A good example is the new puppy, Henry.
I love him already. He is sweet and happy and funny and affectionate.
But oh my God, he is so much WORK!
And not perfect.
Oh, so not perfect.
I think sometimes when I look back on previous posts, it may seem my life is perfect. I think – like so many people on social media platforms – I may give that impression. Because I write of all the wonderful things in my life.
And maybe some people reading my blog or seeing my Facebook page or Tweets think that maybe I have the perfect life. Maybe they are envious.
And here’s another ‘maybe’ –
Maybe I need to set the record straight.
Here’s a glimpse of not-so-perfect.
Henry was four-and-a-half months old and 35 pounds the day we took him home. He was not housebroken.
He is now six months old. Forty pounds. He is not housebroken.
Oh, he is better. He is catching on. But he’s not there.
And I am also not there – if you define ‘there’ as being of sound mind.
Henry drives me crazy.
I start the morning all positive and happy.
By evening I am a quivering teary mess.
I am exhausted.
Henry needs supervision.
I am not a good supervisor.
Before I retired, I had a staff. I was not a good supervisor then either. But I knew it. So I hired the best people I could and stayed out of their way.
I am not a good supervisor because I am a daydreamer.
I read. I paint. I get lost on the internet. Sometimes I just drift away to La-La-Land. (that’s another story.)
And while I am away with my thoughts, Henry is amusing himself. He tears things up. He counter-surfs. he takes his brother’s toys. He is a herding dog, and he gives his best effort to herd the cats, who do not appreciate it.
And often, he pees. He poops. Not always outside.
I am exhausted from supervising him when I do not like to supervise.
My life for the last seven weeks has revolved around pee and poop and the constant question, “Where is he now?”
I walk him.
I walk him several miles a day. My other dog – my beloved Theo – has to come too. Two leashes are extraordinarily difficult to manage when the boy will just not stay on the same side of me. Or on the same side of any tree. But I cannot take them separately without a lot of shrieking (and not all of it is from me).
Oh the jealousy.
The cats are mad. All except Thor, who insanely loves the puppy.
The other cats are furious. Lillian especially wants to know why there was not a vote. With four cats and one dog against the idea, and one of the two humans ambivalent – a vote would have spared me all this frustration and exhaustion.
At least I could say that all the walking has led to a nice slimmer me. Except it has not.
Because of all the chocolate I need right now.
I tell Henry every day that he should start looking for new parents.