We have a new puppy.I was reminded why it’s vital that young ones are really cute:
They aren’t house broken.
They don’t come when they are supposed to.
They think the entire world exists for them.
They cry.
After a few days you realize if they weren’t cute, you’d wrap them right back up and send them back to where ever they came from, grateful that you’d be getting a full night’s sleep again.
I’ve had many puppies in my lifetime, and every one is as different from one another as my daughters are from each other.
This rescue puppy seems completely oblivious to the fact that she’s the size of a house slipper.
She bounds over the other dogs as if she could take them out with a few well placed nips. She hogs the tiny ball we bought her, refusing to let the bigger dogs play with it after a few tosses.
She dives through every barrier as if she was a Great Dane, not a fluffy white thing with springs for legs.
The puppy is Sierra’s dog, technically, and Mireya, who at age six is still not crazy about things that jump on her, has gradually warmed up to the puppy.
“She is not cuter than me,” she told me as we watched the puppy slide into the door after a poorly executed run.
“Nope. And she isn’t as coordinated as you either.”
“I know. And I’m still cuter.”
I wasn’t sure when the “cute crown” started to seem like it was in jeopardy, but it dawned on me that it was time to be reassuring.
“Oh, you’re way cuter. Plus you hardly ever bite.”
“And Mireya knows how to use the potty,” noted Sierra helpfully.
“Thank god,” mumbled Dad.
I wasn’t sure what he was complaining about. Part of the deal of getting a new dog was that he was exempt from indoor clean up. He’s always had a weak stomach for bodily functions.
With the cuteness hierarchy firmly re-established, and some ground rules set, the puppy became a more welcome addition, insofar as Mireya was concerned. Especially when she figured out she can dress this dog in doll clothes.
That dog has no idea what she’s in for.
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