The dog's name is Marcelino. He is an eight week old Portuguese Water Dog, Poodle mix. For short, we are calling him Marce. No, there is no acute accent over the "e". That would might be a cute nickname, but naming him after the Portuguese word for water is already pretentious enough. (Apologies for the bad joke... I blame the barking).
Now he is next to me on the couch, trying to get comfortable. Why? Because I let him out of his "area" so he would quit yapping. Praise all that is holy, for the barking has stopped. He makes a small "oof" noise as he plops against my leg, as if all that racket tired him out, and now he can finally relax. I can empathize with this feeling.
For the last four days, I have been working from home to take care of him. I think he has a mild case of separation anxiety (thus, the barking), and I'm worried if we leave him by himself for more than two hours he is going to go apeshit crazy (which I understand is quite a bit crazier that the less pronounced "batshit crazy"). I don't want our dog to go apeshit crazy, especially not before he is house-broken.
Despite the plethora of poo that ends up on our floor about as often as it ends up outside (not to mention an excess of that other excretion), I have been having an absolute blast. In fact, it's a sort of joy. It's not unabashed, gleeful, child-running-through-field-of-daisies joy, maybe because there is so much floor mopping, but it's a joy that cuts through the cynicism that pervades the life of a 30-something who manically believes he knows everything yet is aware he actually knows nothing at all (on a daily basis).
Whether Marce jumps too high and falls flat, whines because he doesn't realize he can walk around the chair between me and him, or gives a small "oof" as he collapses at my feet, the smile that he brings is earnest. Despite the desire for food and company, he has no ulterior motives.
Unfortunately, he hasn't taken to my wife 100% yet. His behavior, which ranges from mellow to playfully aggressive during the day, switches to full-on demonic when she comes home from work. Suddenly, it's as if he needs to re-establish the pecking order. I suspect he realizes that I, as her husband, am ultimately going to defer to her. Thus, if he can be the boss of her, he gets me as the booby prize. Despite our daytime truce, where he doesn't bite or go too crazy, and I don't have to scold him for it, when she comes home, all bets are off. Over the last few days, I think I've heard her say "ow!" more often than over the course of our marriage. (Does this mean we need to spice things up?)
What it has come down to is this: So much of my attention is turned over to him, that when I close my eyes I see a puppy doing the billion things that puppies do, whether infuriating, cute beyond measure, endearing, annoying or heart-warming. In my experience, when I muffle a sense (by closing my eyes, or not listening to my surroundings, or ignoring the various textures that press against my skin) the thing that I imagine seeing, hearing, tasting, etc, is the most meaningful thing that sense has been experiencing lately, or at least the thing that is most on my mind. In this case, the association is obvious. Regardless of whether it's the feel of puppy fur, the sight of him at my feet, or even the sound of his barking, I have no doubt that these things will come to dominate my mind for some time to come.
(As for my nose, I might need to accelerate the house-breaking, since unconsciously conjuring the smell of puppy-poo is not exactly a bouquet of roses).
Aw I love this!!!
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