A New Top Dog in Our Home
When Hobbes arrived at our home Saturday evening, two things became apparent. Neither order nor melancholy can survive around a seven-week-old black Labrador puppy. Chaos and laughter, however, grow exponentially.
It’s been more than three years since our female German shorthair pointer Sophie passed, long enough for the pain and sorrow of her absence to fade.
As Hobbes investigated, we traveled close behind and relinquished our possession, one by one, to the nether regions of our domicile. Rods and reels temporarily stored near my writing area went back into the basement. Carpets with any kind of delicate or financial value were rolled up and moved into the spare bedroom. Immediate arrangements were made for changes to the dining and lounging quarters of Dexter, our ancient all-white and somewhat chubby feline.
Then we installed the pup’s food dishes, chew toys and lounge cushions. After surveying them, he assumed the air of visiting royalty who had graciously decided to reward us with his presence. We, of course, were attentively grateful. A new puppy can do that to you.
As he pranced about happily exploring every nook and cranny, he did pause for a moment beside the front door. Upon opening it for him, we experienced one of the first of many surprises. At seven weeks, he was mostly housebroken. This was due, we were going to continually discover, to the thorough and happy development period provided by his breeder.