I’m linking up with Betsy today. The topic; ‘how our dogs have prepared us for children’. Betsy has a black lab named Charlie who is every bit of a handful that Fifty is.
. . . . . . . . . .
When I got Fifty, I had zero interest in adopting a puppy, I had wanted a dog, not a puppy. I was looking for companionship, not the hassle of housebreaking a wee shoe destroying, roly-poly ball of fur. Plus, I liked the idea of giving an abandoned adult dog a home. After all, they are usually the last to get adopted. But luckily for Gregory and I, the lady at the shelter had her own agenda.
Every dog that we looked at and that I voiced interest in was a no for some reason or another; “that one would destroy your house
,” “you couldn’t handle this one, he doesn’t like people
,’ and my favorite, “this one will be dead in a week
After we had looked at all of the dogs, or so I thought, she brought us around to her office, and there outside, in his own little makeshift fenced in area was bitty, baby, Fifty. I took one look at him and knew he was mine which was exactly how she had planned it. He had arrived at the shelter with his two sisters and after they had both been adopted, he remained alone. We brought him home and the three of us became a family.
Then the exhaustion began. Since I’m a housewife and was home all day with him, I felt like he had to be housebroken as soon as possible, like if he wasn’t, I was a huge failure. At first we went outside every thirty minutes, and then every hour, and then every two hours, until Fifty learned that outside is where he goes pee-pee. And it worked, it almost killed me I was so tired, but it worked. The only time there is an ‘accident’ is if Fifty is sick.
And that’s how Fifty has taught me to get over ickyness. Baby diapers are no match for a grown dog with a bad tummy (and not the vomit bad tummy, that’s horrible enough, I’m talking about the bad tummy that comes out the other end). It’s pretty much the most disgusting thing ever, and when it happens, trust me when I say this, there is never enough paper towels to deal with it, ever. So yeah, diapers and baby vomit, not a problem.
But when Fifty is sick, he looks at me with the saddest face and as much as I want to kill him for having sick tummy ALL OVER THE HOUSE at three in the morning, I can’t be mad at him. He’s my baby and it’s not his fault.
The thing is, I’m not one of these crazy people that thinks Fifty is a child, I know he’s not human, but he’s MY
child and when I adopted him I took responsibility for his well being, it is my job to make sure he is taken care of. He is innocent like a child and completely dependant on me.
He has to be bathed like a child (except outside with a hose, not in a tub with a rubber ducky).
I taught him how to share and to play nicely with others.
And that if he doesn’t play nicely with his toys, they get taken away (not soon enough in some cases).
But best of all, I taught him the fun of playing dress up, except with Fifty,
he always insists on being the princess.
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