“NOW!”

I’ve turned into one of those women. I suppose it was bound to happen. My life had been my own for so long I thought perhaps I had escaped. It was a trade off, everything is. There probably isn’t any twelve step group to provide support (yet), so unless I can retrieve my life somehow, I am bound to remain ruled by the whims of one small dog.

This process didn’t occur overnight, it took a series of events. I married; I began writing full-time; we brought Reggie into our home.

I have never talked down to children, no baby talk, but now, with this shaggy fur ball, I can’t seem to stop. My voice even goes higher when I address him, “How’s my good boy? How’s my Reggie?” No, I’m not longing for the children I never had. But nothing prepared me for the impact this lovable little dancing bear has had on my life.

I nearly had a nervous breakdown the first week he lived with us. I barely slept, hearing every whimper, every plea for release from his crate. I reassured him, cleaned up after his accidents, took pity on his isolation from his family. I became ill from the lack of sleep. My husband didn’t understand what was going on. “It’s a dog,” he would say, as if that would make my brain switch gears from compulsive worrying to casual nonchalance. “Oh yeah, you’re right, whatever.”

I worried about his shots; he’s a Havanese and they are a vaccine sensitive breed. I worried about trimming his claws; the more he squirmed, the greater his chance of getting hurt. I worried that he wasn’t around other people enough and might become an anti-social barker (when we had company he growled and stayed in the corner, his black coat disappearing into the shadows but his white feet giving his location away).

I always swore that if I ever had a dog, he would be well trained. Now I’ve been blindsided by a six pound dust bunny. When I put him in his penned in area, a safe place for him to be when I can’t have him underfoot, he barks and whimpers as though surely I’ve made some mistake. I don’t give in all of the time, but I wish he would grasp the concept of “settle down.” (For that matter, I wish I could grasp the concept of “settle down.”)

Whenever I let him “out” he uses this opportunity to sniff EVERYTHING in the yard, completely forgetting that he is supposed to be tending to “business.” When I call him to come “in,” he rarely responds, leaving me yelling into the yard, “COME! NOW! GET IN HERE!” His level of obliviousness is almost comical; I imagine the neighbors are getting quite a kick out of the spectacle I am making. In contrast to my pleading, demanding, cajoling, my husband merely says “Reggie, come!” and the pup eagerly runs for the door.

We’ve just finished another impromptu episode of “let’s explore the yard!” I’ve got mud caked on my tennis shoes and he collected a miscellaneous assortment of burrs and whatnot in his coat. He’ll be on a leash for as long as I can stand it, and then the whole lesson will occur again.

When he isn’t playing tag on our acreage, Reggie prefers to be sleeping in my lap, or in the sun. This I can cope with, although he becomes depressed when I am not around so I feel responsible for creating a co-dependent dog.

Despite a few frustrating behaviors, we love the little guy and cherish his many endearing qualities. He loves games, particularly when my husband treats him to something I call “The Claw!” It isn’t as ominous as it may sound. My husband has refined this to the point where all he has to do hold up one of his hands, slightly curled, and make a crackling noise with his voice. Reggie engages in an elaborate series of running, leaping, jumping maneuvers as he pretends to attack the claw while we laugh.

I prefer a simpler game of fetch, but sometimes I’m forced into “boxing match.” Reggie will dance on his hind legs and bat at my hands with his front paws, looking a lot like the puppets from Punch and Judy with their open palms.

We clearly love our shaggy dog and he seems to be quite attached to us. Seeing him brightens our day. I remain convinced that he is making me a better person by teaching me about unconditional love. I would follow him anywhere to make sure he isn’t endangering himself. I’m grateful for the commands he listens to and relieved that we have been spared some of the alternative possibilities. (I once had a roommate whose dogs were instructed to “tinkle potty.”)

I have learned that having a dog means you might occasionally be heard bellowing “come, NOW,” at decibels more appropriate for opera, but as long as little Reg is okay I think I can adapt.

Maybe I’m trainable after all.

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