If you've read my posts you'll know that a month ago the pilot and I lost our eldest dog – the love of the pilot's life – through a terrible botch up at the vets. We're having trouble moving on from the tragic event, knowing that if the vet had of realised she only weighed 8 kg, not 25 kg, that we wouldn't have caused her kidneys to fail with the painkillers she was prescribed. Some days are better that others, but all in all we miss her dreadfully.
Worried about our other dog fretting we quickly got a new puppy who, while gorgeous and adorable and utterly lovable, has very quickly been nicknamed The Vandal. I don't remember our other girls being this hyperactive. I can't recall them having to chew everything within reach, and my blurry memory of the toilet training procedure does not include me continuously mopping up puppy urine.
I'm sure The Vandal is no worse than they were, but more it is the last nine blissful years of living with well trained dogs that has softened me to the harsh realities of puppy hood. And of course I realise there are people out there with far more tragic stories than ours. People going through unbelievable hardships, being persecuted by their own countries, being abused by those who should be caring for them. And I know if these people were to look at my life they would think I was blessed – but sometimes I get sick of being a martyr. And so today, just for the length of this blog, I am going to get it out of my system and have a bit of a whinge.
You know you're having a puppy bad day when……
You hop out of bed and stand in dog poo.
Your puppy comes inside from the garden to urinate.
You end up leaving your mature dog at the vet for three days, running up a bill of almost $1800, to be eventually given the official diagnosis of a swollen toe – most probably from playing with The Vandal.
After a half an hour search you finally find the toilet brush under your bed.
You have to chase your crying puppy around the back yard to pull a poo out of its ass.
You give your puppy a chew toy stuffed with peanut butter and for a split second find yourself hoping it has a nut allergy. (Still feel guilty about that one.)
You discover that your new dog, unlike the others, actually loves water, and considers the water bowl to be its private paddling pool.
You find yourself using the automatic vacuum cleaner as a playmate for the puppy.
Determined to give your new puppy the best chance at a healthy life you switch to an all natural diet, only to give your mature dog pancreatitis.
In the middle of the night, after the third toilet run, you find yourself letting the puppy use your hand as a chew toy.
You find yourself mimicking all the mothers with rambunctious children you had secretly criticised by letting the puppy play with the bath mat/pillow/kitchen stool/silk rug/your favorite shoes/anything it shouldn't be playing with, because it's easier than saying no.
And the final way you know your having a puppy bad day is when you reach for the toilet paper, only to find the puppy has chewed it all up.