My life as a Dog

Right now my house is a maze of dog beds, puppy toys, and baby gates. Lots and lots of baby gates. Luckily for me, my Godson’s parents decided he would not be safe until the house was as secure as Fort Knox. 

Now I have one baby gate at the top of the basement stairs (Talbot rolled to the bottom of those the first day he came home). 

I have one at the bottom of the steps leading upstairs (Note: please spell the word “u-p-s-t-a-i-r-s” when in my home or eight legs will immediately race to the top of the steps. Not an issue, except for the fact they have yet to learn how to navigate back down the steps -please refer back to baby gate number one). 

I have a third baby gate to block off the Living room, one of of the few rooms with a rug (Two words: Puppy and Pee).

And I have yet another baby gate blocking off the dining room and rug number two (I did say puppy and pee didn’t I?)

Every morning is a ritual of shutting gates so puppies can’t get through; and every night is a ritual of opening gates so cats can get through. Well I should say cat, not cats. Max can clear a gate in a single bound, Sophie, on the other hand struggles between thinking she’s a Diva who should have gates opened for her and literally struggling to get her fat ass over the gate. (Note: please also spell the word “t-r-e-a-t-s" whenever in my home, and never, never say it with high inflection unless you want to try to convey the concept of “eat less, move more” to a cat). 

These days, in order to eat at my butcher block table, I have to step through the baby gate to get to the bar stools on the other side. This area beyond the baby gate is now sanctuary to Max, who absolutely will not succumb to the idea that the puppies are here to stay. Unlike Sophie, Max acts terrified every time the two wiggling, squirming, puppies attempt to assault him with a sloppy wet tongue bath. Sophie, on the other hand, has decided if I am going to attempt to become a modern day Noah bringing in animals two by two and slowly turning my home into an ark, is not going to take shit from any newcomers. She knows she’s twice as big as they are and she will bitch-slap a puppy silly if one so much as dares try and lick her.

This past cold, snowy Sunday morning I let the puppies out to pee and took them for their morning walk. We returned home, where, spent from dragging me around several neighborhood blocks in  the snow, the puppies settled into their doggy bed in front of the furnace vent to take a warm nap. I, on the other hand, crawled over the baby gate into the dining room to sit down and eat my cereal and read my Sunday paper at the counter. 

Max, realizing his tormentors were asleep, decided to slink into the kitchen to see if he could beg a “t-r-e-a-t.” He had made it almost half way through the kitchen when he either stepped onto a creaking floor board, walked against a prevailing wind giving his scent away, or otherwise managed to alert the puppies to his presence. They jerked into wriggle, wiggle overdrive and attempted to gang kiss him on the kitchen floor when he decided to leap onto the counter and into sanctuary. What he actually did leap into was my cereal bowl; sending milk and Chocolate Chex into the air... and then onto me, the wall, the table, the bar stools, and the floor -the floor where his perpetrators now happily began to lap up milk and nibble on Chocolate Chex instead of puppy kibble (which I’m certain must be a nice change of pace).

I began screaming profanity at the cat and in a fit of silly rage thought I could actually grab him as he darted under the table. I fell to my knees lunging my arms beneath chairs where Max was now slipping back and forth to get away from the raging lunatic I had become. All the excitement energized the cereal-sugar buzzed puppies who now yapped wildly as they watched me curse and chase the cat round and around the dining room table. 

Finally coming back to my senses as Max wailed in distress, I stood up and surveyed the sticky mess all over my kitchen and dining room. I grabbed paper towels and began to wipe up the floor when the puppies decided to play a festive round of “steal the towel and shred it.” 

Exhausted, I put the puppies in their crate, relegated Max to the basement, and decided to go back to bed. In the bedroom, Diva Sophie lay sprawled across the comforter cleaning herself and giving me her best “that’s what you get for bringing puppies home, Dumb Ass” face. A face which got her locked out of the bedroom while I took a “Calgon take me away” worthy nap.