“This, too, shall pass.”
God, I certainly hope so.
This will probably be our last puppy. Peat’s not all bad. He’s a puppy, doing puppy things. He’s got limitless energy and limitless appetite for biting everything and everyone. He can shriek for 20 minutes straight at any time of day. He has pushed Angus to the brink of speaking English to express his frustration; the look in Angus’ eyes after Peat mauls him for a solid half-hour is unmistakably desperate.
He’s 13 weeks old today, and continues to piss on the floor whenever he fancies. Peat does show moments of calm affection, and has actually begun sleeping on the bed with us through the night. And he is a pleasure to look at regardless of his behavior. But the puppy and his puppiness is wearing us out and has propelled our stress levels through the roof.
All this probably bodes well. At least I have to tell myself that. He’s interested in birds, and points the wing, as well as fetches anything I throw, leaning into me upon arrival. He’s quick, fast, and seems to have a super sensitive nose. I think he’ll be ready to look for birds in September.
Wanting a puppy to grow up just seems wrong. It’s the cutest time of their lives. When they’re sweet there’s nothing like it. After he’s calmed down enough to go to bed with us, he nestles in my armpit and lets me stroke the downy fur on his head.