Dog vs. Mom

I have a new dog. Well, the family has a new dog which means I have a new dog. We are a family with three dogs most of the time, but two suffered untimely deaths within a month. My kids were devastated. My last remaining dog was depressed. (Oddly enough, the vet wouldn’t respond to my repeated requests for Doggie Prozac.)

So we decided to get another dog. And it is exciting. But not so much after traveling from shelter to shelter each weekend. But then we find THE dog: friendly, big, sweet, good looking (we are shallow this way). I even pull the kids out of school an hour early so we can go as a family to the shelter to pick him up.

Then we bring him home. Then I remember how much work a new dog is. Now bear in my mind, I don’t ever feed our dogs. I have children for that. I also don’t pick up poop. Again, the children!

But the training is all Mommy, all the time.

And the walks through the neighborhood. Why is it that all damned dogs think they need to be in the lead? I call my morning walk Resistance Training FOR ME, turning my morning walk into full on, sweaty exercise. And then there is the whole Ninja move when the dog sees a cat. (The Ninja in this visual is supposed to be me – lithe body (oh, it is not a visual, it is a fantasy), knees bent, all senses tuned to the slightest change in the environment.) Of course, he sees the cat, lurches with his full weight and I get whiplash of my arm.

Plus the dog won’t come to me yet (I’m still hopeful for the future however).

So I spend a lot of time on the floor with doggy biscuits. (I don’t know if you’ve read my stories, but I actually don’t ever “get on the floor”.) But they aren’t that appealing to him. So I get off the floor (barely), get a bowl of yogurt, get back down on the floor (there’s whimpering now and yes, it is me) and try to tempt him.

I don’t get on the floor for my fucking kids, but there I am on the floor with a bowl of yogurt pleading with a 55 pounds beast to pleassssse give me some attention.

Then there is the opening of the gate to drive the car in and out. And his mad dash out into the street. And his complete unwillingness to come back home. And my franticness down on the ground, pulling dog biscuits out of my pocket, thinking Shit Shit Shit. I GOTTA get this dog back.

And the grooming. I run a tight ship at my house. (And yes, I can turn coal into diamonds in my ass.) My kids huddle in the house, watching through the window as the dogs writhe as I vigorously brush them with my special grooming tools. (I know the 10 yr old has said to the 7 yo: I’m so glad that isn’t one of us right now.)

Sit, down, come, stay, heel.

Yep it's working about as well as it does on the damned kids. Don't they know it's supposed to be all about Mommy, all of the time?