Here is my new puppy. Don’t be fooled by his adorableness. He is a vibrating, finger-biting, cat-harassing, carpet-pooping little monster. That charming curlicue tail is fuzz-covered worm set on a barbed hook. Those soulful little eyes issue commands like a drill sergeant from hell. “Toy!” they say. “Toy now! Throw!”
So I hoist my carcass off the couch, pick up the puppy-slobbered stuffy and toss it across the room.
I get a 0.03 second reprieve and he is back, wriggling at my feet, giving the stuffy a severe case of whiplash. One eye rolls back at me. “Tug. Tug now. I dare you.”
“Drop,” I say, firmly. Experts say tug encourages finger biting.
I am ignored. A game ensues. It is called Dare to grab the toy in the split second after I drop it, before I clomp down on it (or your finger) again.
I often win. Sometimes. I sometimes win.
Play continues until dog collapses in exhaustion. Isn’t he cute.
I rush to the computer to get 15 solid minutes of work done.
Rinse. Wash. Repeat.
To add variety, we go outside for a walk. Pee happens there. Not poo, though. Poo is saved for carpets.
Here he comes now—the evil puppy. Yeah, perk those ears a bit higher. You’re not fooling anyone. Those soulful brown eyes are a façade, hiding the soulless monster within. That sweet little whine is merely an echo of the bwahahaha in your cold, cold heart. Forget it, you’re not getting in my lap.
Oh, no you don’t.
Not in this lifetime—or any other.
Oh, all right. Come up here. Dork.
The puppy passes out. This time, I pass out, too.
This story was originally posted back in April on marieloughin.com. As long as folks here at Pen in Hand were sharing their dog stories, I thought I’d share one of my own.