Barren Mare

Pack mentality

I realise that it's been awhile since I have written anything about the family dog, Little Guy. Poor Little Guy. Sidelined on the blog as much as in real life.

Before Botany was born, I began to worry a little bit about how LG was going to take her arrival. Everyone kept saying to me, "He's a dog, he'll adapt."  But prior to the birth, the dog was undoubtedly the centre of attention around here.  E. and I lavished his furry little self with love, attention, time, energy not to mention those squishy doggie treats he likes so much. At night, he slept like a small person, in a spoon-like position with me in bed.

A few months before the baby was due,  I tried, with marginal success, to distance myself somewhat that the transition wouldn't be so stark. I knew though that no matter what I did, LG's small wet nose was going to be put firmly out of joint when the baby came home. Since as far as he was concerned, he was the baby.

To be fair, he has coped with his demotion in the pack rank with considerable grace. We introduced the new member of the family gently, giving LG time to become familiar with Botany's presence while at the same time trying to provide some reassurance that he is still loved. Happily, Little Guy has become even more firmly attached to E., who in addition to taking on the responsibility for walking and feeding, continues to devote as much time and affection as possible. But in consequence, my formerly cosy bond with LG has undergone an alteration. 

Part of the change is the creation of a certain amount of necessary physical distance. Both E. and I are very careful that LG and Botany are never, ever left alone together, even for a minute. He's a sweet natured dog, and I think he will be very good with her some day but there is no way I am taking any chances. Presently, when we allow LG near the baby under supervision, he mostly just wants to sniff her nappy and to try to gently lick her head (the latter being rather discouraged). However, because we've already been far too lenient with LG about stuff like getting up on the furniture, I felt it was important to reinforce from the outset that Botany and her room are off limits to Little Guy. So when we first moved in, I installed a baby gate to the nursery so that he can see in, but not enter.  The nursing chair faces the door, and during the first couple of weeks, I found myself sitting there for hours on end, rocking and feeding with Little Guy sticking his forlorn little nose through the gate bars. Eventually, he dragged his doggie bed into the hall and parked himself outside the nursery door. That broke my heart a little bit.

After a couple of weeks, he gave up sentry duty. Now, when he is not out for his daily afternoon adventures with the dogwalker, he flops out in the the living room with his toys. Whenever possible, I try to pop in to say hello and pet him.  At one point, I tried to nurse Botany at least once a day in the same room as LG so he didn't feel so isolated, although I pretty much gave up on that since the sofa is nowhere near as comfy as the nursing chair and I can never seem to get the cushions positioned correctly.  And inevitably, as soon as she finally fell asleep, LG would stir, run to the window, spy the neighbour's dog or a pigeon or a swirling leaf or perhaps the rubbish bin appeared menacing- and his piercing BARK would jolt her awake.

Oh yes, the barking thing. The barking is basically a complete pain in the ass. When we lived in the old flat, LG very rarely barked- mainly because we were on the top floor and he couldn't see out the windows, which were quite high. He was usually well behaved on walks as well. Therefore, like dumbasses, we rather assumed he was not much of a barker and never worried about it.  Then we moved.  Unlike our old flat, this house has plenty of vantage points and lots of glass doors and accessible windows, all of which have proven extremely difficult to cover up.  So now he barks frequently, at everything. This is annoying at best and rage-inducing during those moments when the baby is suddenly woken up from a hard-won nap by his shrill little yelping. We've been trying to train him out of him with various methods but frankly, my hands are full just now and I have very little spare time or energy to devote to dog wrangling.  At least I am alerted when the post arrives through the letter box (and have to run downstairs before he eats it.).   

There are times when it feels like I have a noisy, mischievious toddler on my hands as well as a baby.  When I can hear him shredding something unauthorised while I sit out of reach, nursing. There are days when I get back to the house after a long walk with Botany in the pram, and as soon as we get to the door she wakes up and starts screaming, then the dog needs to be let out of his crate, wiggling with frantic joy at being reunited with the pack and jumpjumpJUMPforjoylickylicky. And he wants to be let out, getting underfoot as I am trying to drag the pram up over the back stairs into the kitchen and then he runs over and noses his metal food bowl rattling across the kitchen floor, FEEDMEMUMMYFEEDNOW while the baby also cries for the boob. 

Such chaos in a previously calm, well-ordered life is...well, an adjustment. If I am being honest, I would have to say there are moments when LG's antics simply add to the sense of being overwhelmed. But then...the other day, we came home, and LG did his customary wiggle of delighted greeting to both E. and myself. Then he ran out to the pram and wagged his tail at Botany.

"Look," said E., "he's saying hello to the baby. He knows she is part of the pack now."   And I bent down to stroke his furry little head- this irreplacable, invaluable member of our new expanded family.

Unplugged

This is our last weekend in the flat, and along with everything else, our internet connection is being turned off on Monday.  I'll still be able to send and receive emails from the office but the evil firewall bars me from all things blogworld- that is, reading of and posting to. So while I am looking into various solutions until we get into the new house, apologies if updates from this end are slightly patchier than usual for a bit.

In the meantime, may your days be filled with less of this:

 

and more of this:

It's the StayPuft Marshmallow Man

Little Guy firmly believes he is the centre of the universe, and so naturally, he concurs with the theory that it was because of his arrival that I finally became pregnant.  I, on the other hand, am a little less at ease with the notion. True, it does seem to be downright coinkydinkal- we get a puppy in September and I am pregnant within two months.  And I cannot deny that even now, the sight of his relentless furry cuteness, his small body coiled up on my lap, his sweet puppy face turned up toward mine- all inspire an undeniable surge of maternal feeling- which, who knows, was perhaps linked to my body finally figuring out what to do.  So I do not dismiss the idea out of hand. 

However, the reason I get a bit twitchy about the idea is that to me, it falls a bit too far into the "it was all in your head" side of the explantory spectrum. As in, all I needed to do was get myself in the correct mindset- whatever that might be; relaxed, maternal, preoccupied, detached- and boom!  It's a little bit like saying that "oh, just adopt and you'll surely get pregnant."  The reality is, we all know people to whom that has happened.  We all can name examples of women whom to all extents and purposes were getting on with their lives- either building families in different ways or else focusing on something else entirely- who suddenly and often miraculously conceived. 

And I know of a dozen women who didn't.  For whom the alternate path was the final way forward, rather than the means to achieving the original goal. But somehow nobody talks about them. Nobody says, "hey, I know a couple- they couldn't conceive but after years of unsuccessful heartbreak, instead of having a family, they traveled the world, raised three cats, grew prize-winning roses, and were very happy."  Because where's the anecdote there?  There's no obvious story to tell- no gripping last minute reprieve from the apparent life sentence of infertility.  Which is interesting, because I happen to think tales of people coming to terms with something painful and sad but ultimately moving on should be just celebrated and applauded. But these are quiet, subtle - and often very private- victories and so tend to be overlooked. 

I also have trouble with the notion that the only way to fix infertility is to somehow fixate on something else- to stop wanting what you can't have. Because let's face it, while you are in the throes of the problem, it's a bitch of a cure to achieve. I call it the the Staypuft Marshmallow Man theory. You know, from the film Ghostbusters? The bad guy tells our heroes that the next thing they think of will be the form the demon assumes to destroy the world. And despite their efforts to clear their minds, all that Dan Ackroyd's character can think of is the Stay Puft Marshmallow man.  And lo, destruction comes in the shape of gooey sweetness.  It's like that when you're trying to get pregnant, and you can't. At which point all you can think about is how much you want a baby, even if it starts to completely wreck your life.

Anyway. I'm very glad we got Little Guy, and I'm very glad I got pregnant.  And beyond that- well, it's anybody's guess.

In which he contemplates even more naughtiness

Little Guy: "Chew now?  Chew later? Chew? Chew? Mmm, chew. "

Sometimes it's hard to stand this much cuteness

When is a door not a door

Hi! Hello! I am alive- or at least not dead- after my bout with gastro-whatsis.  I feel much better now, the symptoms and attendant unpleasantness having just gone away on its own eventually. But fun while it lasted, uh huh.

Unfortunately I am still struggling to find time to blog in the style to which I was once accustomed. Much of that is attributable to Little Guy; supervising him during his waking hours is a full time job. He's into everything, chewing, bounding, playing. He loves most of all to romp in the pile of pillows on our bed which he treats as his own special den. Fun! for! little! dogs! where! is! my! toy?! aha! there! it! is!

By the time he finally goes to sleep, I need to catch up on all that life stuff in the half hour or so before my own energy levels go *wumpf* and I fall asleep myself. Also, there was a time when he would happily curl up in my lap while I sat at the computer; now he is big enough (and clever enough) to jump up onto the chair itself before scaling the dining room table and jumping on the keyboard with his tiny furry paws.

So my posts end up looking like this: shadiafhlpishdfaidhiDHIwhfihncCNSIHLOIchHIHISHIhishdihisdhipa 

Ahem. We're working on the "down" and "no" commands.

On the upside, we have (touch wood) more or less mastered the housbreaking thing, as eventually he cottoned on to the fact that the bell on the door was for multi-purpose potty activities. Huzzah!  It's been five days now with no accidents in the house (unless of course he's wheaked one out someplace I haven't yet discovered, like the back of my closet.)   

In other news, I made an appointment to go see Dr. Best Friend in a couple of weeks- a sort of speculative re-con exercise, if you will. Not to mention the fact that I have not seen in her in about a year, and I remain rather fond of her and miss her in the way in which you miss people who you don't really know but for whom you harbour the friend-crush.  We'll see. I have no doubt the existing waiting lists for any of the Scottish clinics are still as absurdly long as always, and I have not quite mustered the will or enthusiasm to seriously consider going abroad. 

But I figure, what the hell. There's really no harm in at least getting a foot in there- since after all, you know that old chestnut. When is a door not a door? 

When it's ajar. 

Not on the bed!

I've been trying to find time to finish off a longish post- the theme of which is, er, how I seem to be too busy to figure out the plan of action vis a vis IVF. Unsurprisingly, it is not ready yet.

Meanwhile, the Little Guy continues to delight and occasionally exasperate. The housebreaking thing?  Not going so well. Pardon me for going on at length about it, but I've become slightly obsessed with the topic.

Little Guy is a clever boy, and I've taught him to ring a bell by the door when he wants to go outside for a poo. Good, huh?  But let's not get carried away with the congratulatory pats on the back. The bad news is that the learning has not quite sunk in when it comes to peeing side of potty training, which continues to be an ongoing daily battle with far too many carpet casualties for my liking.

I'm doing all the right things- taking him out every hour, crating him when I can't keep an eye on him, cleaning up the accident black spots with special pet odour remover. And yet, he continues to foil me with stealth pees . This afternoon, I turned my back for about five seconds and he jumped up on the bed, then piddled all over the duvet cover. 

I know, I know, it's completely my own fault for not watching him.  Vigilance is key, yadda yadda. I guess the trouble is that I am often left looking after him for hours on end, on my own, and I simply cannot give him my absolute undivided attention every second. And somehow sticking him back in the crate right after I get home to let him out seems on the harsh side. I figured because he had performed on cue half an hour earlier, the coast was clear to have a quick dash to the loo to attend to my own personal bathroom needs and then brush my teeth for a minute. Um. Evidently not.

I can sort of understand the temptation to pee on the bed (and please note how I daringly tempt the Google search weirdos with that sentence.) But rather more worrying is his willingness to wander into his little crate and let loose. We were using a larger crate initially, one we had inherited from E.'s parents. When LG started heading there for his bathroom breaks, I put it down to the fact that it was too big for him- big enough so he could pee at one end and sleep at the other- a major no-no in received housebreaking wisdom. So I got him a crate more appropriate to his size.  He seems to like it just dandy. He's fine in there for a couple hours during the day.

But then what did he do tonight, right in front of me?  While I was watching him? Walked straight in and away he went. Argggg. Here I had been secretly exulting that I had taught him to be so fond of his little den that he was happy to go in of his own accord and hang out in there, and meanwhile he's plotting potty naughtiness. Double argg.

Yes, yes, I know, he's only four months old, it will take more time. And the bell thing- yay! And also the cuteness- oh yes!  We will perservere.

 

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.