Two nights ago I was awoken by Stella, my dog. Let me explain that: two nights ago, Stella woke me up because she
was puking. Am I making myself clear? Stella’s puking woke me up because she was IN.
OUR. BED.
That’s right. We’re those people. Our (seventy pound) dog sleeps with us. Feel free to judge us. I judge us for this reason, as well, but it’s
a habit we can’t break.
What were we thinking?
The first year of her life she slept on the floor, like most animals.
(Actually, I guess most animals sleep
outside. Stella would undoubtedly die if
she had to spend a night amongst the elements.) Then, one morning, when we had just discovered I was pregnant, we woke up to find her cuddled at our
feet. At some point in the night she had jumped in bed with us and found a cozy corner.
I’ll admit: I thought
it was sweet. I figured she was using
her dog senses to know I was pregnant and wanted to be close. She was being protective and loving, or so I
assumed. In retrospect, this was my
first bout of pregnancy brain. This
seventy pound (ehh, seventy-five, post Molly) dog wanted to sleep near my
unborn child? Not. A. Chance.
She was already spoiled in every aspect of the word, and
this was just icing on the cake. She had
her own spot on the couch, didn’t wear a leash on a walk, had an open door
policy to our backyard, was a regular at the dog park, was the center of our
Christmas card, and had been caught red-handed stealing food from our plates
with no repercussions. Why shouldn’t she
sleep in our bed, too? As far as she was
concerned, this was her home, and we were the ones invading her space. Forget pack leader, Stella was “pack
queen/czar/president/CEO” all rolled into one.
My view as I crawl in bed each night. |
As you can imagine, Molly’s entrance into our family rocked Stella’s world. Her perfect little kingdom came crashing down as she saw us starting to put the needs of a nine-pound squishy human above her own. Sorry, Stella, did no one tell you? Did no one tell you how the world works for dogs like you?
Well, here it goes (better late than never, I guess): two people fall in love, buy a puppy, love
the puppy, mildly obsess over the puppy, puppy becomes dog, love for dog grows,
dog goes everywhere with couple, wife is expecting baby, take cute pictures of
dog with pregnant belly, couple swears they’ll never be the couple that treats
their dog different after baby comes home, baby is born, sweetly introduce dog
to baby, fast forward two weeks: what dog?, does that dog really have to go out
again?, stop barking!, don’t lick the baby!, oh, we are so that couple.
Yep, Stella made our pregnancy photos. Duh. |
Meet your little sis, Molly. It all started with great intentions... |
So, as I was cleaning up Stella’s vomit at 11:43 p.m. two
nights ago, I realized this change of treatment isn’t personal. It’s not you, Stella, it’s me, and I think
it’s time we have a DTR (Define The Relationship for those of you who have been
out of the dating scene for over a decade).
You see, my four-legged daughter, you’re not to blame for
the shift in your lifestyle or our relationship. You have done nothing wrong (minus the
multiple times your barks have woken Molly up from a nap AND this whole throw
up business). You are still a fabulous
dog, but I just now have to use my energy for Molly. Yes, Molly, that tiny human who parades
around like she owns the place (hmm…remind you of someone from a couple of
years ago?).
But instead of having to apologize or explain myself every
time you feel like a "second class citizen”, let me go ahead and map out all of my behavior
(past, present, and future) that you may find offensive:
If Molly pees on the carpet or furniture, I will take a
photo, laugh about it, clean it up, and blame myself for letting her run “free”
for a few minutes.
If you pee on the carpet or furniture, I will groan, whine,
complain, and ask you why you did this, assuming it’s some disobedient attempt
to tell me you’re unhappy.
See here, Molly peed on my bed, and I thought it was cute enough to take a picture before cleaning. |
If Molly runs into the street, I will SPRINT after her while
calling her name.
If you run in the street (and I happen to even notice), I
will yell your name or shout “squirrel” to get your attention. There will be no sprinting.
If Molly doesn’t eat what I make for her, I’ll offer several
options until she has a full tummy.
She’s a growing girl.
If you don’t eat the food in your bowl, well, I guess you’ll
be hungry.
And, if Molly and her friend decide to play in your food bowl, I guess you'll be hungry then, too. |
If Molly rolls over, takes a few steps, wears a cute outfit,
or learns a new word, I will take a picture.
I will then text this picture to the grandparents, email it to the
great-grandparents, and post it on Instagram.
Unless you photo bomb any of these pictures or Molly decides
to use you as a prop, it’s unlikely I will be taking your picture. And, on the off chance I do, Daniel is
definitely the only one I’m sending it to.
Photo Bomb. |
Prop. |
Photo Bomb. |
If Molly vomits in my bed at 11:43 p.m., I will be in full
Dr. Mom mode. Thermometer, wash cloth,
barf buckets, medicine, text message to the doctor, whatever it takes to make
her feel better, I’ll be doing it.
If you vomit in my bed at 11:43 p.m., I will panic about the
damage done to my bed spread, put you in the back yard, spot treat the
comforter, tell Daniel to fill up your water bowl, and go back to sleep.
I think I’ve made myself clear here. I don’t want to be heartless, just
honest. I could probably give several
other instances, but you’re a smart dog, right? Don’t beat yourself up over this. It’s natural.
It’s life. You’re a dog, Molly is
a human. No, no, you’re not human. But, hey, as far as dogs go, you’re top
notch, irreplaceable, the greatest, the sweetest, and the prettiest. But, as far as daughters go…well…umm…wasn’t
it Teddy Roosevelt who said, “Comparison is the thief of all joy”? Yea, he had a point there.
But, you know what?
Now, that I think about all of this and write out my sentiments to you,
I realize I didn’t come up with this at 11:43 p.m. when you vomited in my bed. No, it was more like 11:56 p.m.
Yes, that was it. I
had used a towel to pick up all of the “loose” vomit and placed it in another
towel. Then, I began to spot treat my
bedspread. When I came back to retrieve
the towel that bore your projectile, I grabbed the wrong end. That’s right.
I grabbed the WRONG end, and it all went flying across the room - spraying
the carpet like a sprinkler. I gagged,
mumbled a few sweet-nothings, and began to spot treat the carpet. Yes, so it was there, at 11:56 p.m., while I
scrubbed puke out of the carpet, that I had my “a-ha” moment.
So, while I can’t promise you a future of long walks in the
park without children or weekly baths, I can promise you a few things. I can promise I’ll continue to feed you (at
some point in the day), take you on walks (when it’s not too hot or too cold),
take cute photos of you (if they include Molly or any subsequent children), and,
by golly, I’ll let you sleep in my bed (as if I have a choice). And, I promise that all of these things,
while they aren’t the diva treatment of your past, they all still mean I LOVE
YOU (like a dog).
From: Paige
P.S. Okay, okay, and I promise to try and get you in the Christmas card picture next year.
2011: Squeezed in between our hug, and you even smiled. |
2012: Molly's here! Two words - (Stella's) body language. |
2013: Hmm...I could have sworn you were there. Oops. |
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