We had a choice between another puppy and this one–and someone in our family chose this one–the “feisty one” because that sounded like more fun for the kids. (That someone was not me because my ideal dog is kind of like a bear rug that just lies on the floor by the fireplace, not moving.)
So, Lola the Dog has been wreaking havoc ever since.
She ate a bunch of ibuprofen once, for instance, and ended up in the specialty hospital for three nights. That hospital charged us by the hour.
She’s eaten shoes that do not even belong to our family.
She steals food from the kitchen counters. She cannot resist butter and has more than once eaten a bag of tortillas. She gnaws on my kitchen utensils and has left toothmarks on my Tupperware measuring cups.
Lola the Dog is smart but unless you have a treat in your hand, she may or may not cooperate. Lately, if she wants to cross the street and walk on the other side, she will just stop and look at me until I say, “Do you want to cross?” and then, if I head across the street, she’ll happily follow. Otherwise, no go.
I kind of remember the days before this dog with longing . . . you would, too, if you saw how much she sheds. I wonder why we complicated our lives with a feisty dog who eats stuff that is not edible.
She is a dog who cannot contain her joy when we return after even two minutes away from the house. She sprawls under my desk while I work. She barks her fool head off when we get a delivery.
When she comes to my chair and I try to pet her, she reaches up and holds my hands with her paws.
She’s a pain. She leaves her toys everywhere. She slobbers on me. She keeps digging random holes in the lawn.
But she is a big fan of everyone who lives in our house . . . and of everyone she’s ever met. (She is more hesitant about The Cats.)
If only she could do laundry.