If you’ve been keeping up with this blog – and if you have, you really should investigate getting a library card and reading something more worthwhile – you may already know we recently brought home a new addition to the family.
Her name is Lucy. And since she’s obviously not a German Shepherd, it’s pretty apparent I had no choice or say in the matter. The fact is I never saw Lucy until my wife and daughter walked in the door with her.
Let’s talk about what I like to refer to as “the real dog” for a moment. When we got our German Shepherd Max, the world’s greatest dog, we got him at a breeder. He is a pure bred long-haired German Shepherd. And he’s a German German Shepherd. He was actually imported from Germany, and because of that has more frequent flyer miles on Lufthansa than I do. He responds to commands in German. And when people hear us give him a command, they all ask the same question: “Does he speak German?”
It never gets old.
Since my wife and I are both working, we ponied up the money to have Max trained by the breeder before we brought him home. We figured the smart play was to make sure we didn't have a dog that big that we couldn't control. For six weeks, we drove out to the breeder in Corona on the weekends to work with him.
On the seventh weekend, we brought him home.
The reason I'm explaining what we did with Max is because we're not doing it with Lucy. She's a mutt, with some terrier in her blood. My daughter's friend's dog had puppies, and that's where she came from. No fancy kennels. No imports. No breeders. We're training her ourselves.
And while I'm perfectly capable, it is exhausting in a way I haven't felt in a long time.
Puppies like to sleep for a few hours at a time, then run around like Tasmanian devils for short bursts in between naps. And they have to be watched as they're spinning out of control, to make sure they don't hurt themselves or anyone else. Or break something. Or get so excited they have to express it in the only way they know how. Peeing in the house.
Then there's the part about teething. What you don't notice at first glance - because you're so taken by how cute Lucy is -are the three rows of puppy shark teeth. Fortunately, once she bites that fleshy part of your hand between your thumb and index finger, you never forget.
Everything is a game to Lucy. When she's out in the back yard and done doing her business, my idea is to get her back inside. In her mind, the chase is on. She makes sure I have to chase her all over the yard and work up a good sweat before she decides to go back in the house. This is especially pleasant on mornings when I have to get to work.
The good news is now she's better about sleeping in her crate, and at least she doesn't decide to cry like she's being murdered until about five in the morning.
I was spoiled by Max, the world's greatest dog. And I'll be the first to admit I'm not so good or patient with the puppy stuff.
Even though she'll only weigh about a third of what Max does, and be less than half his height when she's fully grown, I'm hoping I'll grow to love her as much as I do my big old German Shepherd.
For right now, my favorite part is when she doesn't do what she's supposed to, and I get to say "Lucy, you got some 'splainin' to do."
