I am a daddy.
I’m sort of a daddy. A couple of months ago, Lindsay and I finally achieved a very long held desire to add a dog to our lives. Neither of us have ever owned a dog, and really outside of a couple cats, we really had no idea what we were in for.
We’d spent years discussing the type of dog we’d like, and coming up with names and idealizing our lives changed by canine companionship. Sure, it would be tough, but the end result will outweigh the challenge, and we’ll all be happier for it in the end.
We’d put it off for years because it was never the right time. We both worked all day, and didn’t have a yard, or any way to really give any kind of a quality existence to an animal. But it turned out that I was going to start working from home, and at that exact time, a family friend of Lindsay’s had had a litter of French bulldog puppies. Coincidentally, the French bulldog was exactly the type of dog we’d settled on as the perfect pet for us. The stars aligned a bit, and while it was scary, this was one of those moments where you either do it, or don’t, and live forever with the consequences. It couldn’t be that bad, could it? There were people all over the city with dogs, so if they can do it, why can’t we?
So we said OK, and sorted out the money, which was perhaps more than we should have rightfully spent, but the opportunity was right there, and it really felt like the right time. We could make this work, with just a bit of sacrifice on our part.
Cut to D-Day. Lindsay went down to Florida to pick up our boy when he hit 8 weeks, which is the right time to separate a puppy from the little. We bought some books on raising and training puppies, and crossed our collective fingers. We were going this alone, because we didn’t really know anyone who had, or even really liked dogs. But we were pretty sure we did, so after buying a lot more stuff, and spending more money, I went to the airport at around 9 PM on a Saturday night to pick them up. There was a bit of fear to be sure.
French bulldogs are not the easiest dogs to own. They’ll love you for sure, but they’ll challenge you just as much. They don’t tend to have the best health, and while we did our research, there was still a lot of finger crossing and hoping for the best going on.
I hadn’t yet realized that the next 2-3 weeks would be among the toughest I would experience, maybe ever.
She unzipped the bag while I was driving home, and George (as in Clooney, his full name) poked his head out of the bag. I told her, I couldn’t look because I was driving, and I really wanted to make sure I was paying attention to him when I met him for the first time. I did sneak a glance, and a little part of me melted when I saw those giant ears sticking up, and that wrinkly face drooping a bit more than a little.
We got him home, and dropped him in the little fence we’d bought and set up with potty pads, where he immediately peed, much to our glee. Then, since it was pretty late, and we’d all had a big day, we got him to the crate, where we slept on the floor next to him, and got very little sleep on the unforgiving hardwood floor.
Early the next morning, it started. We praised and clapped, and kept our cool, and had a pretty good day. We also cleaned up a lot of poop and pee. We learned very quickly that our patience was not yet adjusted to the task in front of us. We also learned that a puppy has almost no ability to tell the difference between soft things on the ground he’s supposed to pee and poop on, and things he isn’t. The nice dog bed and bedding we’d put down was instantly soiled, and would be done repeatedly in the coming days until we realized we’d just have to do without it. Communication between the species was also slow in coming, except for the idea that he absolutely hated to be left alone or penned up out of reach from us. We were alerted to this by a sound I’ve since come to know as the frenchie death yodel. It was like if you mixed a jet engine with the unhappiest baby in the world. Immediately, you start projecting life lone habits of this sound, rather than seeing it for what it is, which is a confused and scared baby animal, who will, in all likelihood grow out of it. He continually reminded us to walk when we tried to run. For me, any progress was usually followed by me expecting the next step instead of enjoying the small victories, something I’m still learning.
The first Monday where young George and I were alone was fun for a while, but I slowly started to realize that, at this rate, I was never going to get any work done. Furthermore, you can’t take a puppy outside for a long time after you get them, until they’re immunized, so it became a sort of house arrest scenario, and there were a couple times where I’d wondered if I had made a huge mistake, and communicated as much to Lindsay, who was a bit freaked out, because my usual attitude had been demolished by a 7 lb dog.
In the coming week’s we began a gradual learning process. Thanks to the help and advice from a couple of people who assured me that things would be OK, things got better. While it’s cute and lovable to have a puppy, the chaos they can cause at first is very daunting to someone who really has more order in his life than he’d realized. Before I realized it, I’d worked out a schedule. I knew when he would sleep, and when he would eat. He mercifully figured out that he was supposed to pee and poop on the puppy pads much quicker than he should have. This was a blessing and a curse, as he was going through the pads very quickly, and they were much more expensive than you’d think. The feeling of house arrest was slowly dissipating over the course of the first month, where I slowly learned how to leave the house for small amounts of time. The first few times out of the house were horribly stressful. Perhaps they were nearly as stressful to the dog, but I learned that I’m a very attentive parent. I wanted to be perfect, which I’m sure is the downfall of many parents with their human children. The real solace through it all was the calm and peaceful snore when he slept, and I just wanted to make sure he was happy. You’d think that snoring sound would be annoying, but I really loved it, because it meant that, at least for now, everything is OK.
Today, as then, there are victories and setback every day. He learned “sit” with almost no effort on our part. “Down” is still a hit or miss prospect. They also say that French bulldogs, which are bulldogs at heart, are stubborn, and they aren’t kidding. You have to demand every inch from him if he doesn’t want to give it to you. But other times, he’s obedient and sweet and loving, and everything you’d want from a pet.
Even now, every time something different happens with him, I worry that we’re going to have some long term problem, either behavioral or medical. I worry about separation anxiety, both for his sake, and for the idea that we don’t want to have to find a new place to live. But outside of two incidents, He’s been left alone repeatedly, and without incident. Finally, after about 2 months, we could put bedding in his crate, and on the ground, and he doesn’t pee in them. The first time he peed in the crate, I thought it was a lost cause, because the one constant I’d been told is that dogs won’t pee in their crates. Well, they will. They might stop eventually, but they will. The next big challenge, which is sort of ongoing, is that he wont’ walk with us when we try to leave the apartment. I’d trained him to walk on a leash in the apartment, but try to leave the block, and he’ll fight you. That’s getting better too, and the one reminder I need to constantly be given is that he’s still a young puppy, and that he’s already way ahead of the curve.
There’s a man at the park, where many dog owners go in the morning, who has three dogs, and clearly has a long history of taking care of animals, and he took me aside one day to tell me that I was doing a really good job. You don’t need an animal trainer if you have sense and patience. And I think it’s true. I might be cursing myself later, but I think I have to have confidence that everything will be OK, or that dog will know that I don’t believe in him, and so I do. When he told me that, it gave me a lot of confidence in myself that I wouldn’t screw this up, or I hadn’t so far. Basically, Lindsay, George and myself were working in a vacuum, with no context, and it was so helpful to hear from an outside, experienced place that things seemed OK.
Since then, I have a routine, and George has calmed down a good deal. He sleeps when I want him to, and he plays when I want him too. We’ve let him into all areas of our house, and other than an incredible desire to eat every little thing off the floor he can, he’s pretty good inside.
There have been problems sure. He’s got cherry eye, which is where the tear gland pops out of place and has to be put back through surgery. He’s either got a cold or allergies, and it’s been about a week with a runny dog nose. But he’s eating and sleeping and playing normally, and we were led to believe that we don’t need to worry unless that changes or the snot turns green. A constant in my life is monitoring the status of my dog’s poop, watching for changes and unwanted consistency. There are some genuinely great walks, and some really horrible walks. He has bonded more with me, who he spends all his time with than Lindsay, so she has a little harder time controlling him than I do, but generally, he might be the smartest, most well behaved puppy two first time dog owners have ever raised. He even seems to be mostly housetrained at this time, but I’m not saying that out loud.
And right now, I’m not with him, and I miss him. I’m concerned about him, and I hope he’s happy. I know he’ll be looking for me in the house, and likely ignore Lindsay more often than he should while I’m away. But that might all be in my head. He’s awesome, and he’s my best friend, and he’s taught me patience and responsibility, and we’ve got a lot of good and bad times ahead of us. It scares the hell out of me, because if I’m this way with a dog, our kids are going to kill me when they come along, and Lindsay is going to have to calm me down quite a bit.
rther, the greatest guitarist was also the greatest rock songwriter ever. The combination of these elements is unmatched in rock history. It is all that is essential to rock music. There are beats that pound you over and over again. There are rises and falls, and crescendos which became clichéd only after the Who made it so.
Part of the reason I know the comparison to Pete is valid is because I was never that good of a technical player. I don’t really think Pete was either. He was a brilliant musician, a claim I’d never make of myself, but when he just plugged in and played along with the guys, it was all about feeling, and never about technique. It was about attitude and a strong undeniable beat. The fact stands that there’s very little in this world more satisfying than the sound and feel of an electric guitar channeled through a crunchy amp, and striking a single, resonant A chord. It’s one finger, laid out flat. Anyone could do it, but there’s something special about the way Pete did it, and the way I love to do it that is so expressive that I fail to describe it in words. It’s why rock music works.
