I’ve always fancied myself a nice person. I mean, I have my moments and all, but I don’t think that I’m truly deserving of karmic retribution for past indiscretions. So, why has the universe cursed me with Satan himself in the form of a tiny dog?
Yes, the love bubble for my grief purchase has well and truly popped and I only have myself to blame. Buyer’s remorse is real and it’s been personified as the hound from hell – who is currently chewing my kitchen door frame as I type.
I am not alone in my frustrations with this calamitous canine, Conor has hated him from the off and it’s only gotten worse. To say the feeling is mutual is an understatement. My husband is no longer allowed within six feet of me or Dougal will go crazy.
Before you get the RSPCA involved, I feel like I should defend myself:
- I know he’s a puppy
- I know he’s teething (or so I’m reliably informed by my dog-loving cousins)
- I know he’ll calm down eventually
- I know a large part of his on-going ‘bad’ behaviour is down to me being totally rubbish at training him.
I know all of these things and I run this over in my mind as I pick up yet another ripped item of underwear that he’s found somehow.
I can buy my own crotchless pants, Dougal, I don’t need your help with this. Don’t worry, I’m kidding (I prefer proper latex ones).
Why does it have to be my underwear? It’s like he specifically targets just mine – and it’s always my favourite bloody ones. I am not afraid to admit that I have shed a tear over the senseless death of my favourite black bra. The one bra I owned that actually fitted and didn’t make me look like I had one giant boob. Does he care how hard it is to find a damn bra that I like? Does he f*ck. Damn dog.
Giving up is not an option, this dog will not break me. It’s easy for me to vow that because the strangest part of this whole debacle is: I love him. He drives me insane countless times a day but he’s also sweet, loyal and comforting to be around when he eventually calms down. He sits on (yes, on not at) my feet if I’m standing still for longer than thirty seconds, he still tries to sit on my chest like he did when he was tiny and I genuinely like starting and ending my day with a walk on our usual route – when he doesn’t run off to chase cars.
I think I have Stockholm Syndrome.
Perhaps I was a villainous dictator in a previous life to deserve this petulant pooch but he’s family and we don’t give up on family – we do want to drastically change their personality before they pull up more of the carpet on the stairs – but we don’t give up on them.
This is all a learning curve for me and at present these teachable moments feel like I’m trapped in a nightmare of my own making.
He will not win. If I say this enough I may even start to believe it. In the meantime, please excuse me while I stop the dog from using my small child as a teething ring.