They’re not awesome.
I could leave it at that and generally call it good because that’s a perfect overview of how I feel, but divulging all the small fantastic details is really what will make this post worth reading (in my opinion — I realize that probably sounds arrogant, but let’s all just face the fact that I started a blog by my own volition because I assumed I was funny enough for strangers to read what I had to write and enjoy it).
When Husband and I first got married, I knew a dog would be in my future — after all, he was raised in a dog loving family. When I met his parents for the very first time, I also met five fully grown Golden Retrievers. When I met his oldest sister and husband, I also met another Golden Retriever, a Chocolate Lab, and a fluffy white thing whose breed I don’t know. When I met his second sister and husband, I also met a little Ewok dog and White Lab.
Like, seriously dog people.
I felt like I’d be up to the challenge, however. I’d been around dogs that I found quite tolerable, and though I am a cat person through and through, having never lived with a dog in essentially my entire life (there were these three days when I was two years old during which we had some enormous dog that chewed up all my tub toys and was then transported to another family down the road who was apparently okay with that sort of thing), I had it in my little head that it wouldn’t be that hard.
It wasn’t till we bought a house and I didn’t have a full-time job, however, that we felt as though we could reasonably have a dog, so we waited a bit and then the day came, and we went to a no kill adoption extravaganza at the fairgrounds and met dozens of really cute, sweet, fluffy dogs and cats who were adult age and house-trained and crate-trained and then came upon this cracked glass eyed Leopard Catahoula named Gracie.
It didn’t matter that she was only four months old and we had no clue as to whether or not she knew any sort of commands or had any training. It was kind of love at first lick (she licked me … not the other way around). And she tested well with cats, and she had dem eyes, and I found out she’d been picked up by Animal Control, meaning she either ran away or was abandoned and no one cared to find her (rude), and my bleeding heart, you know, bled, and it was settled. She was going to become a member of our family.
First things first, we had to do something about the name, to which she didn’t even respond at all, so we decided upon Ruby J (and I think she was happy with that because it only took her one day to realize that was her). And for a time, I thought, “I could totally get used to this having a dog business.” We went to Petsmart, bought a crate, bought dog food, bought chew toys, bought eating dishes and treats and a dog bed and even the cat was totally fine with the new addition.
AS IT TURNS OUT, this four month old puppy, with frost-bitten ears and some of the most incredible abandonment issues and separation anxiety I’ve ever encountered, was neither house-trained nor crate-trained. Ever. At all. No indication she knew how to deal with either.
A cat mama whose cat baby is litter-box trained is not a human person equipped to deal with ten pee accidents and two diarrhea accidents in the space of three days. I’m just going to let you know that right now. Ten. In three days. I DIDN’T EVEN KNOW SOMEONE COULD PEE THAT MUCH (total exaggeration. Of course I knew that because probably I pee at least ten times in the space of three days — the difference, however, and this is a big deal, is that I don’t do so on the carpet.) And then I didn’t give a rip about how cute this is:
or how funny this is:
All that mattered was I was spending a vast amount of my time at home cleaning up urine and not, say, relaxing with Elliott Stabler and Olivia Benson.
That harshed my mellow, you guys.
And over time, that continually grew less and less cute, as did the fact that she could not bear to be away from me under any circumstances (and when I say away from me, I don’t just mean not in the same room or even upon the same piece of furniture — I mean not touching my body in some way because apparently personal space is not a thing with dogs.)
In short, cat people should never have puppies. They just shouldn’t. It’s miserable and awful and then you feel like the worst person on earth for feeling that way about a cute puppy but then it bites the cat and pees on the carpet and you immediately retract any bad feelings about being upset and wallow in your self-pity because you realize having a puppy is too much like having a baby which wasn’t really in the cards.
I sound complainy. I keep reminding myself that it’s really not as horrid as I think it is, and when Husband is gone, and she’s being the best guard dog on earth or it’s late at night and she’s being the best snuggle bug ever
maybe I kind of like it a lot. Maybe I could grow to love this peefaced dog.
I dunno. It feels futile at times, it feels plausible at others. Mostly, I dig this scene:
As does she, clearly.