There’s no other way of saying it: everything has changed. It’s not a case of a few cushions here or a stick of furniture there; life has altered in a manner that is far more fundamental. Instead of our old life where we did what we wanted when we wanted, we are now in a perpetual state of readiness, in which are spring-loaded to leap to attention in an instant. For the ranks of our household have swollen from two to three after the arrival of our dog. Already I have been asked what having a puppy has been like. I answer that it’s a lot like having a demanding houseguest, albeit one who’s spectacularly incontinent.
There’s no other way of saying it: everything has changed. It’s not a case of a few cushions here or a stick of furniture there; life has altered in a manner that is far more fundamental. Instead of our old life where we did what we wanted when we wanted, we are now in a perpetual state of readiness, in which are spring-loaded to leap to attention in an instant. For the ranks of our household have swollen from two to three after the arrival of our dog. Already I have been asked what having a puppy has been like. I answer that it’s a lot like having a demanding houseguest, albeit one who’s spectacularly incontinent.
We named her ‘Fozzie’. This is partly because she sort-of looks like a bear but mostly because my wife wouldn’t let me call her ‘Beyonce’. We consulted far and wide as to a suitable name and receive a veritable avalanche of suggestions including ‘Luna’, ‘Cinder’ and (my personal favourite) ‘Patricia’. The true test of a dog’s name is whether you are willing to yell it out whilst at the local dog park. It was on this basis, that ‘Beyonce’ was discounted from consideration at an early stage. However, as with any name, a number of variations have already developed, including, ‘Fozzie-a-tron’, ‘Fozz-o-matic’, ‘Fozz-tastic’ and ‘Fozzalicious’. Remarkably, she responds to all of these.
But having a dog means change by the bucket load. As someone who is not so much resistant to change as flat-out allergic to it, this presents all manner of challenges. These started early when my sixteen year-old nephew Jake and I were directed to take a trip to the local pet store for things the pup could chew on. Specifically, we were told to purchase an item made (and there’s just no delicate way to put this) of bovine genitals.
I am not the kind of person who feels comfortable walking into a shop, slapping my hand down on the counter and then demanding, in a loud and clear voice, to be directed to the supply of bull junk. Rather, this is a delicate task that requires the upmost of discretion. The trouble with an item like this is that, for reasons of general politeness, it’s destined to be called something other than what it is. But, try as we might, we couldn’t identify anything that might be some poor creature’s family jewels. Despite our best efforts, we had to ask for help.
The weird thing about pet stores is that it’s kind of like Dr. Frankenstein’s laboratory, with ears and snouts and other assorted bits of anatomy available for purchase. Inevitably, those working at the pet store were all young and female, which added substantially to the general level of creepiness involved. Rather than flat-out ask, I decided to embark on a far more subtle form of interrogation. I started by asking whether the store could recommend something for a dog to chew. A mere three hours later, an exhausted shop assistant introduced Jake and I to something called ‘the bully stick’. Gently, I enquired as to the ingredients, whereupon the sales assistant turned a deep shade of puce before admitting that a ‘bully stick’ was, in fact, the former family jewels of a certain quadruped.
Glory be, our epic search was over! Better yet, we had managed to track down the elusive ‘bully stick’ without having to ask for its contents by name. However, much of our good work was undone when, upon hearing that a bully stick was, indeed, bull genitals, my nephew and I responded by punching the sky and high-fiving. ‘I’ll take two!’ I cried, before demanding that they be gift-wrapped.
Our living room has been transformed. Aside from the occasional bully stick, there are weird soft toys everywhere. I have named them all. There’s ‘Captain Octopus’, ‘Super Duck’ and ‘Justin Beaver’ and some blue thing that I can’t quite identify as being anything in particular and which I may end up calling ‘Le Freak’. Then there are all kinds of chew toys, ‘Kongs’ (which are kind of like canine Pez dispensers), ropes and tug toys. Whereas once our house neat and pristine, with cushions artfully positioned beside books and magazines, it now looks like a dog’s treasure chest has recently exploded.
Training continues apace. So far, we have mastered ‘sit’, ‘stay’ and ‘rollover’. Now we just need to teach these things to the dog and we’ll be set. Granted, there have been some unfortunate incidents of which I do not wish to say too much, save that it has completely transformed my relationship to urine. Whilst she’s learning quickly, I beginning to suspect that I’ve been too ambitious. Granted, it’s still early days. But at this stage my plans to teach Fozzie how to dive a manual aren’t looking too flash.
I’m not sure if I was mentally unready or whether it’s not really possible to prepare for a change of this magnitude. Soon, though, what is novel will become routine. What now feels like upheaval will simply be a part of everyday life. So be it. It’s funny that something so small and furry should teach us exactly that.