What Was I Thinking? I Got a New Dog
There’s a new doglet in my life, and I’m wondering what in the world I’m doing.
He’s a “rehomed” mutt. Rehomed is, apparently, the polite word for relieving oneself of an animal that no longer satisfies its owners. So now I have this funny, energetic, undisciplined, slightly frightened little dog who whines when I leave and has already decided my furniture belongs to him.
He’s adorable, still very much a puppy at about two years old. He needs his shots and, in the very near future, a rather significant alteration to his manhood. Fortunately, he has no idea what misfortunes lie on his horizon. For now, he is friendly, playful, and only vaguely acquainted with his new name. Since I changed it, he isn’t quite sure whether I’m talking to him or carrying on a conversation with some invisible creature in the room.
All of which leads me to one obvious conclusion. I’ve lost my mind. What happened to my brilliant plan to buy a robotic dog? It wouldn’t need feeding, bathing, walking, or housebreaking. I could hug it whenever I wanted without worrying about muddy paws or unexpected puddles on the floor.
The truth is, it simply wasn’t the same. Hugging a stuffed animal can’t compare to scooping up a fifteen-pound bundle of bones, enthusiasm, slobber, wagging tail, and unconditional affection.
This little fellow keeps me constantly alert. He zips between my feet with the speed of a squirrel, while I’m trying very hard not to break another bone avoiding him. We’ve already established that I don’t need another visit to the orthopedic surgeon.
I’m also determined to ignore my neighbors’ complaints about his pitiful whining and mournful barks whenever I leave to buy groceries for both of us.
I’m convinced he’ll eventually figure out that I’m coming back. I’m not abandoning him. His own company is perfectly acceptable, and mine isn’t disappearing forever. The sooner he believes those truths, the sooner we can both relax.
Training a dog, I’ve discovered, is really an exercise in training the owner.
Why doesn’t he automatically know that “Quit jumping!” means “No”? Why hasn’t he learned that when nature calls, he should politely tap me on the leg instead of inventing his own solution? And when he’s racing around the room like he’s training for the canine Olympics, why doesn’t he understand that “Come!” is all I need to say?
Apparently, dogs respond better to one simple command, repeated consistently and rewarded with treats. Long speeches, emotional lectures, and commands sprinkled with colorful language are, according to the experts, remarkably ineffective.
Who knew? So wish both Jaxson and me a quick learning curve, one that ends with an unspoken bond built through misunderstandings, patient repetition, playful chaos, shouted instructions, forgiven mistakes, and warm snuggles.
I have a feeling we’re both going to need all the good thoughts we can get.