Barren Mare

Rise and Shine with Little Guy

Little Guy thanks the internets for all your commentary on his cuteness. But shhhh. I'm having to cover his inordinately large ears whenever we go out to prevent him from getting a big head at all the flattering remarks.

I confess one of my main hesitations about getting a dog is that I feared it would interfere with one of my primary pleasures in life; that is, the Joy of Sleeping Late. Now, don't get me wrong-if anyone ever actually dared to suggest to me that I am soooo lucky to not have kids because at least then I get a proper lie-in, I would probably rip their head off and grind then into puppy kibble. But secretly in my heart of hearts, I have always been a little bit relieved that if nothing else, life without children means I can indulge in sleepy jammies late morning spoonings under the cosy cosy duvet. Mmm, love the snoozings. Love the zzzzs.

So it's come as something of a surprise to me that I am quite happy to bound out of bed bright & early each day with the pupster. Admittedly, there is a stong motivation- if I don't get him outside immediately upon his waking up, within about 60 seconds there will be a large puddle of wee (or worse) on my increasingly shellshocked carpets. The other day I bit E.'s head off because he was on Morning Potty Duty that day, and he took too long to usher the small furry one out the door- so Little Guy went ahead and peed on the first available surface, namely my white embroidered bed throw. Arggggh.

What's hugely funny is that Little Guy likes his sleep as well. As soon as he's done his business, he makes a beeline straight back to bed. There he will yawn and stretch, lying on his back with his paws in the air making funny little grunting noises as he decides whether to wake up. It seems to annoy him that by this point, usually both E. and I have both gotten up and are getting on with the day. I guess it really gets the blood moving to dash out from under the covers in order to stand in pyjamas and furry boots in a freezing cold garden while the dog ponders the blades of grass.

The odd thing about it is I don't mind in the slightest- or at least not right now. It's lovely- no, correction-it's blissful to have something to want to get up for. (Wait, is that English? "To get up for?" Oh, who cares, you know what I mean.)

Even if he has just thrown up all over my boots, the rascal.

How Much is that Doggie in the Window?

Actually, upon reflection  I concur with Lut C- he is too cute to be called the Dawg.  And though he will grow out of his current puppy tininess, he will never be a particularly large animal.  Here in the House o'Mare, we find ourselves frequently referring to him as "Little Guy".  Little Guy! Littttttleee Guuuuy!  And up he toddles, waggy waggy waggy.  I have keep reminding E. not to overdo it with the nicknames, as the puppy will actually need to learn his real name. 

As far as what type of dog he is, isn't it so much more fun guessing? I'll keep dropping you wee hints- Little Guy is not a terrier.  He's a hound, of a breed designed for hunting rabbits. Like a latte, the breed comes in three sizes.  LG is the smallest coffee.   

Not that he'll be doing bunny-terrorising under my watch, if I can help it.  I did take him to the vet the other day to have him checked over, and as he was sitting there, pink ears glowing angelically in the sunlight, a girl walked in carrying something in a sort of plastic bag thing.

"Hello," the receptionist said, "Is that the bunny?"   

And Little Guy's ears twitched.  Hmmm, delicious wwwabbits. 

One thing I've immediately noticed since his arrival is how sociable a dog forces you to become.  Simply being out and about the neighbourhood brings me into contact with all sorts of, ah, interesting people.  I'm generally quite shy and a bit reclusive by nature, so it's a slight shock to the system.  Little Guy generates a fair amount of interest wherever we go, with attendant cooing and patting. Understandable, given he is a contender for World's Cutest Puppy. It's all very pleasant, up to a point.  I have had to fend off a number of rather grabby children, all of whom want to hold/pat/cuddle him with slightly too much enthusiasm; or in the case of one small insistent boy, to suddenly wrap their grubby mitts around the puppy's neck. Noooooooo.

Also yesterday I found myself embroiled in an odd discussion with a man who was primarily concerned with whether I had seen any Pakistani oil barges sailing up the river in recent weeks. Little Guy patiently sat on my shoe for a bit and then got bored and began eating the cuff of my jeans, forcing me to hop unbecomingly about trying to extract myself from both tiny but fierce jaws and the conversation.

Plus, what is with people asking me how much I paid for my dog?  Do folks do this in America?  It's the way they say it, so bluntly. "How much did that cost you, then?", as if Little Guy is a sort of animated handbag.  It makes me feel all squirmy and uncomfortable. Besides, what some people evidently fail to appreciate it is that the basic purchase price of the puppy pales in comparison with the subsequent unchecked spurting of vast sums of money from the artery of my wallet.  I should have just developed a cocaine habit and been done with it.

Now if you'll excuse me, there's unseemly display of cute puppy tummy going on over there on the no-longer pristine living room rug (my eyes!)- somebody needs to be tickled.  I'll try to take a picture if he'll hold still for two seconds.

Updated:

Now with 100% more tummy.

Meet the Dawg

He's here!

We are now the proud owners of a small puppy. Henceforth he shall be known on this blog as "the Dawg". Not his real name, of course, but he's quite worried about his anonymity on the internet, which is maybe why it's practically impossible to get him to hold still in order to take a picture. He's a wriggly little guy.  So the photography is really only happening when he is sleeping. Or maybe chewing something. Or perhaps licking himself, but you probably don't want to see much of the latter.

Look:

And here too:

Click on the pics to get the big version- my lap is full of warm sleepy puppy at the moment and I'm having to type with one hand because his head is on my arm. So I can't be bothered with tinkering with the sizing.

I'm completely besotted. Really, I don't know how I have lived so long without him.

Recovered Scream

Gah! No time, no time, no time!  I got back seven days ago and now I am going again.

It has been a hideously, ridiculously, insanely busy week- the kind where you don't have time to take a shower or iron a shirt or pluck your eyebrows or breathe. Oh, and you discover after arriving at work and having a chat with Cute Male Colleague that your makeup isn't blended properly and the two spots on your nose are glowing like a nuclear reindeer. Niiiice.

Anyway- I will be back in a couple of weeks and then I will have the puppy. So we all have that to look forward to! Yay! Do the giddy puppy dance! 

And I leave you with this in the interim.  Almost exactly two years ago I wrote about the Edvard Munch painting "The Scream" being stolen.  Well huzzah and happy days- the police recovered it from the thieves and the damage is minimal.  This fills me with a sort of cheery optimisim- that sometimes, precious things lost can be found and returned, more or less in one piece- and with a bit of interesting history to add value, and to remind us of why it was precious in the first place.

See you soon.