Puppy Love

We’ve just got a dog. A puppy. 12 weeks old. A border terrier called Bella. The result of a two-year campaign my three children to wear me down and get a pet.

I’m not a dog person at all and I didn’t really want a dog. I was quite happy to have a goldfish. You know where you are with a goldfish, and you certainly know where it is. There’s no barking and no walking with a goldfish. It loves you in its own quiet way, and doesn’t kick up a fuss when you leave the room. A goldfish doesn’t jump on your leather sofa and it doesn’t chew your slippers. And when it dies, you simply flush it down the toilet and it doesn’t complain. If and when this dog grows up and dies, how am I going to get it down the toilet? It’s going to be very messy. And speaking of messy, will I have to chase after this dog all its life with a Morrisons' bag cleaning up its poo? Why the poo? Always the poo.

That said, so far, I must say, the kids have been quite good at looking after her. Well, my two eldest are (11 and 9 years old). Our 2 year old still tends to squeeze her, drop her and hold her back legs up to see if it can do wheelbarrow races. Admittedly, we could never do that with a goldfish but, on the other hand, if we tried that with a goldfish it would never complain. The puppy really moans when he does that.

We’re still trying to train it (the pup, not my 2 year old) and it is starting to do what my wife tells it. She chews my laces (the pup not my wife). I’m told it’s a sign of affection, but frankly it’s very irritating when you work from home and you’re on the phone to a customer, and you can hear this growling going on (the pup, not the customer).

And then there’s all this stuff about showing the dog you’re its leader and not the other way round. But it’s all very confusing. When you come in it wants to show you it’s pleased to see you, but my doggy guide book (pup fiction?! ha!) tells me I can’t show it too much, or it will think she’s the leader, and I’m the subordinate. Fat chance of getting that right now, given that it doesn’t do anything I tell it, gets me to serve it food (warmed up, no less!) and clean up its pee and poo.

I think it’s already clear who’s in charge, and it’s certainly not me. And if I die before she does (of stress, exhaustion and dog-care fatigue, no doubt), I’ll be the one being flushed down the toilet, and who’s going to clear up that mess?