DOG DAYS

Whether my wife wants to admit it or not, she’s got baby fever. When one of our friends has a baby, even one of our fringe friends, I’ll wake up on a Sunday morning to the smell of a quiche in the oven, because we’re having a “Brunch to meet the new baby.” And whenever she holds that new baby in her arms she says to me, “Dontcha want another one? Dontcha?” No. I’ve done my sentence. I’ve put in my time as a stay-at-home dad. I’m done. I even went to see an urologist this past summer to discuss getting the boys snipped. Granted I chickened out, but it had nothing to do with my desire to be done procreating. It had more to do about the idea of smelling my own burning flesh well it was cauterized. Anyway, with Arden in first grade and Alex now in preschool full-time, I’ve finally got my pre-kid daytime life back. Or so I thought…

I don’t know how it happened (well maybe I do), but not a month after Alex started her full-day preschool school program in January, we got a puppy.

Sometime over the summer Jen met a cute little French Bulldog and decided if we were ever to get a dog, that’s the kind we should get – they’re small, they’re cute and they don’t bark. So at the beginning of the year we started to discuss getting a puppy. And to Jen that meant we were getting a puppy so she told the girls we were going to get one. Point of no return, right? I thought wrong. After doing a little research on puppies I realized, they’re a lot of work. And I started to tell Jen about all the trouble involved with getting a puppy – eating furniture, peeing on the carpets, vet bills. Eventually she said to me, “Way to suck the fun out of getting a puppy.” She knows I can be guilted into almost anything. But I held strong, “I don’t want a puppy. I just got my pre-kid life back. I want to keep it that way for a while.” And she said, “Fine. You tell the kids they’re not getting a puppy.” So I said (to myself,) “Fine. I will.” And I fully intended to tell Arden when I picked her up from school that day. I had it all worked out. I was going to say, “We’re not ready for a puppy. But in the meantime, how about you and me skip school one day and go to Disneyland?” I knew I could appeal to her sense of Space Mountain. And then when I arrived at school she showed me a picture she made in art class. It was a French Bulldog. I was sunk. I was getting a puppy whether I liked it or not. So I told Jen, “Okay, let’s do this.” But I told her the deal was that I would take care of the puppy in the morning when she got ready for work, and during the week when I was home working. By default I also got the nightshift because Jen would never hear the puppy whine. She could sleep through an atomic blast and not even stir. Her responsibility would be taking care of the dog the rest of the time – evenings and weekends. She said, “Deal.”

So I found a good breeder who had a cute little cream puppy and arranged for the family to check him out at the park that weekend. Ten minutes later we were driving to PetSmart to buy all the essentials for the newest member our household – Bacon.

I quickly learned that raising a puppy is much like raising a baby. As Jen put it, “Puppies are like babies. Only mobile. And on speed.” And they pee on the floor. Every fifteen minutes. And of course my deal with Jen instantly went out the window. Deep down I knew this going in. But if I wanted Jen to cook dinner, I would have to watch the dog. If I wanted her to do the dishes. I would have to watch the dog. If she needed to clean up my half-assed attempts to keep the house in order, on the weekends, I would have to watch the dog. And watching a puppy isn’t easy. You have to watch them like hawk. Even taking them out every thirty minutes doesn’t guarantee they won’t piss on the rug.

I was in hell. I couldn’t do any work because I was constantly watching the dog for accidents. I couldn’t even pay attention to my kids, if I wanted the puppy to not chew on the furniture. I was already bad at multitasking, as the title of this blog suggests, but now I couldn’t even attempt my half-ass attempts at keeping the house in order. Dishes remained in the sink. Laundry piled up. I couldn’t even find the time to shave. Sometimes I’d just skip showering all together. Yes, we had a crate, but at that point I didn’t know you could crate them during the day. I honestly wanted to give the dog back.

Cut to two weeks later: I’m sitting in a veterinary ER on a Friday night, because our brand new little French Bulldog puppy had eaten something toxic and couldn’t stop throwing up. $600 and a roll of Tums later, I’m sleeping on the living room floor next to Bacon’s crate, making sure he makes it through the night. At dawn he’s licking my face, happy to see me. And you know what? I was happy to see him too.

I’ve since learned that you can crate a dog during day. Though if I don’t want him to cry I have to pretend I’m leaving the house. So I grab an energy bar and a Coke Zero and wave goodbye and then sneak around the back of the house, into my office and work for a few hours. Then we have lunch together and he sacks out on the couch next to me while I finish my work on my laptop. And now Bacon can tell me when he wants to go out (he sits in front of the gate and gives a headfake to the front door). It may be every 30 minutes, but at least I don’t have to watch him in between. We’re starting to understand each other. He may still nip a bit. I may still find him gnawing on a chair leg. But hey, he’s a puppy. My puppy. And I love him. I guess Jen’s baby fever was contagious.