Puppy Passions

My postings have been interrupted lately, because I made the fateful decision of inviting a puppy to join our homestead family of two senior citizens, an aging cat, and an old dog. This canine youngster has upended our daily routine and forced many habitual activities into suspension. It's been three decades since I welcomed the last puppy into my life—when I found myself spending many hours trailing a pooping and peeing infant canine, trying to get the message across that if he accomplished these kinds of eliminations outdoors, I would be far happier than being forced to wipe up yet another oops from the floor. Apparently those earlier puppy travails have faded.

Memory withers with the years and this is often why we tend to repeat our past mistakes. Or is it a mistake in this case? Am I repeating a former blunder or am I possibly prescient about bringing some fun into our lives? I can think of myriad other blunders that I've made in the past that were so painful that I know I'll never do them again. But there are other previous choices that, even though I paid the piper for them, I seem willing to try again... in this case maybe either because I sort of remember the delight of having a young-in' around, or maybe that I think I can do a better job this time around. The other possibility is that the many years have dulled the initial pain I endured and my revisionist memory has painted the subsequent experiences a decidedly rosy hue. After all, my previous puppy eventually blossomed into a happy and valued member of the family.

It could be argued, however, that I'm too old for engaging in the puppy raising game. Old farts like me often acquire a stodgy demeanor that beckons us to veg out in front of the TV or to retreat into monotonous pastimes that guarantee minimal surprises or creative activity. Chasing a puppy around the yard, congratulating it in theatrically cheerful expressions of gratitude when it dumps a smelly load is not the usual sport of seventy-year-olds. So it just may be that I sensed an opportunity to be jolted out of my aging lethargy and have my life infused with a badly needed injection of youthful joy. Or equally possible, I'm in danger of spilling what few mental marbles I still retain. We'll see.

We are now at the three-week mark of having a puppy dog in residence. He was seven weeks old when he joined us—an ideal age for smoothly transferring his adulation and connection from his mom to a human being. That transfer, however, comes at the cost of many lost hours of sleep and a continually interrupted routine. One's life becomes dictated by the puppy's desires and impromptu bladder and bowel evacuations. Am I going to have lots of fun or did I make a colossal mistake? We'll see.