An Open Letter to Our Puppy
(AKA: Mr. Bohanan, Pupperton P. Jones, and Flufferton J. Goldendoodle)
You’re four and half months old and it will be difficult for you to pay attention to this letter, so I’ll keep it brief. I know you woke up yesterday morning with two testicles and went to bed last night with none. I’m really sorry about that, but it’s not my fault. This man made me do it:
Honestly, he’s been telling me since birth to spay and neuter my pets. It’s like the Holy benedictions of daytime television, “And also with you.” Anyway, what’s done is done. I’ve taken away your reproductive freedoms, and now we must move on. Moving on.
The veterinarian (the nice lady who took your toys and a generous fee while you were sleeping) gave us these rules:
- You must go out into the backyard on your leash for the next two weeks so you don’t pop any stitches.
- NO rough-housing.
- You cannot lick your “spot” in excess.
So, I am only being compliant when I put you on your leash to do your business. Jumping on the patio door is reserved for when you really have to go, not when you think you can trick me into letting you out to race across the yard. You cannot trick me. If you keep jumping on the door I’m going to stop letting you out, even on the leash. Also, I want to take this moment to thank you for never, ever pooping on our floor. Honestly, thank you. Yes, you are the best dog ever and haven’t had even a piddle accident in over a month, so let’s please not mess with a good thing. Save the door jumps for when you mean business.
I know that golden-doodles are very smart dogs, but I’m wise to you. I saw you eying the door when we went back inside, hoping I’d take the leash off before I closed the door. I felt your little muscle tense as you considered your options and ability to bolt, Indiana Jones style, through the closing gap. You chose wisely; you wouldn’t have fit. Let’s stop this little game now, before someone gets hurt.
No! No, you cannot go outside and chase your soccer balls across the yard. No, I cannot throw your squeaky hamburger, and no, neither can the boy, the girl, or the man, so stop already. This is why we bought you a three pack of soup bones from the butcher. No, we do not throw the large chunk of cow femur no matter how many times you toss it in the air to land on the hardwood floor. We will not throw the sharp heavy cow bone no matter how many times you drop it on our bare feet; for the love of God, please stop dropping it on our bare feet. Yes, you have to sit still. You just do. I’m sorry. Sit. Sit. No, really sit! Do we bite? No we do not bite, good boy.
So, Midnight, please eat your bone and enjoy your canine percocet. If you’re like me it will give you really strange dreams wherein you might find yourself burying a stranger in the woods. Feel free to dream that dream about Bob Barker, and get well soon.
PS Rough-housing can commence on November 6th.