The pains of puppyhood
It’s said that the best two days of a boat owner’s life are the days the boat is bought and the day the boat is sold. Let’s apply that saying to puppies.
The best day for a puppy owner is the day the puppy comes home. After that, it’s a harrowing downhill slide.
You forget what wretched little creatures puppies are or you would not get a puppy. That cuteness is a trick, you know.
Waylon the puppy has been in the family for a little more than two weeks. In that time he has almost doubled in size and has grown a forest of dark fur that, overnight, erupted from his fluffy caramel-colored coat – a layer so soft my daughter couldn’t bear to let him leave her arms for even a minute in those first hours of the puppy moon.
“No accidents in the house,” we proclaimed to all the holiday visitors, and that’s true. He has spared us one of the messier hallmarks of puppydom. It’s helped that the farmer takes him outside 1.2 million times a day, a habit that, while encouraging the training, has left paw prints all over all floors. Despite the housebroken-ness, I’m still mopping all the time.
About a week in, the biting began, and that’s the part I’d forgotten. You’d think that after a lifetime of puppies, I would finally have remembered to order my suit of chain mail, but I failed at that and now when I walk from my office to the kitchen I feel like a starlet running a paparazzi gauntlet. Sir Waylon doesn’t have a camera, but he’s got teeth that land like needles on my ankles and calves and hands and anything else within reach. We’ve peppered his world with toys and chewy things, but, like any toddler, he loses interest.
“Redirect,” the training videos say. We’re redirecting like traffic cops around here, and still. When I get up in the morning, I pull my nightie way up around my knees like I’m walking through floodwater. Soon enough, the pup will be able to reach even that. Last week, he ripped out two hems.
“Let’s walk him,” I told the farmer, “so he’ll be too tired to bite.”
When attached to a leash, Waylon became Bambi on the ice, limbs splayed and immobile. Walking on a leash is a learned skill, and I fear we’re months away from that. That first week, Waylon stayed with the farmer when they went outside, but then the pup got confident and started to wander. The farmer went running after him.
The next day, the deer fence went up. It’s not pretty, but it’s temporary and a way for Way to get out of our way and get some exercise. It has not helped the biting at all, by the way.
Puppies are bad enough, but smart puppies are worse. The farmer built beautiful, rustic barn doors that glide on tracks and separate the main living space from the bedrooms. Waylon has learned how to slide them just enough so that he can escape and allow the doors to close behind him. I found him in the closet eating some shoes.
Send help. We are under siege here.
I don’t remember how long the biting and chewing lasts. They say it’s like childbirth, though – you forget the bad parts. I’m sure our other dogs were total pills at first, too, and they all grew up to be wonderful, loyal, non-painful members of the family. We know how to raise good pets.
These puppies, though.