The first week with Owen has been life on fast forward: infancy to the terrible twos in seven short days. Today, on the seventh day he mastered going down the stairs which means no part of the house is off limits if the baby gate is down.
The kitchen, paved as it is, served as an e-z-wipe nursery during the three days of his infancy, a place he had little need or interest in exploring beyond. Now when the gate falls all breathing becomes a pant, a frantic search for electric cords, preferably plugged in, cat food (or even better, the cat herself) and poisonous house plants. He has metamorphized from a 10lb doe-eyed crying baby to a hysterically wild-eyed intoxicated 13lb pre-adolescent who needs CONSTANT supervision. The sole consolation of this phase is that his play/sleep ratio is still 30/70. The vet says within a month it should be closer to a 99/1.
Today for the first time I found myself thinking WHAT HAVE I GOT MYSELF INTO? I mean, the idea of communication, of consistancy while communicating with this dog is TOTALLY IMPOSSIBLE. Like, how do you isolate an incident of good behavior in a hurricane slipstream of constant activity, because by the time the second 'O' in the phrase 'GOOD DOG' is out of my mouth Owen has already done three bad things.
And this is when I am giving him my undivided attention. Today I actually tried to balance my checkbook with one eye and one hand while the other warded certain death and destruction away from that tiny little unit of puppy will.
One week! Three pounds! Twice the dexterity! He has the ability to tear through the yard in a tight donut formation, navigate both stairwells in both directions, and he actually hasn't even quite begun to think mischievously.
What have I got myself into?
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