Having a puppy is just as awful as having a kid.  They stink.  They eat and shit and vomit every hour on the hour.  No respect for sleep, relaxation, or general cleanliness.  I didn’t get a puppy, per say.  But I did become a surrogate mother of sorts.  Or child-support father if you prefer to look at it that way.

    I came home to a house full of puppy.  The thing proceeded to do what a seven week old puppy does.  It quivered.  It was afraid of the blender and the ice maker and banana peels.  Little did I know, this tiny, fuzzy, diarrhea machine would bleed into every part of my day like a red shirt washed with Jesus’ nightgown.

    What kind of dog is he?  Everybody seems to be so concerned with the breed.  He looks like a Rottweiler.  No he’s mixed with Labrador.  Look at his markings.  Who gives a fuck?  What difference does it make?  Does a Dachshund make neater shit piles than a Pitbull?  Is a Golden Retriever more likely to graduate college?  No.  It doesn’t matter what he is.  They’re all vile, depreciated wolves at some point.  So call him whatever you want.  I like to think he’s got some Native American in him.

    The first week was rough.  I’ve never prayed for Parvo so much in my life.  I did everything I could to promote it.  I coughed in his face.  I used him like a scrub brush on the dirty tile at the vet.  I let him eat all variations of strange and sun-dried dog shit.  I left the windows open and night.  Nothing worked.  

    Every morning I’d wake up to the dog fart equivalent of Hiroshima.  And whimpering.  Endless whimpering.  Then you’ve got to be a parent.  No different than a kid.  Only you can get away with dropping him a little more.  You wrap yourself in a sweater and stumble out into the morning to wait impatiently.  “Can you just shit already?  We go through this everyday.”  Sniff sniff sniff.  Piss all over his own paws.  Wander.  Chew grass.  Circle, circle, and then perfect eye-contact for the duration of a full, shivering bowl movement.

    What kind of dog is he?  An asshole.  That’s what kind of dog he is.  He’s fun in the way a yo-yo is fun.  For three minutes until you want to hang yourself with the string.  Then he’s asleep.  Or pissing on the carpet.  You learn real quick about the ninety-ten rule.  Ninety percent of the house is wood floor.  Ninety percent of his “accidents” happen on the carpet.  You can call them accidents.  I know he does it on purpose.

    The worse part about the whole puppy rearing process is the self reflection that goes with it.  You grab the thing by the scruff off the neck a little too aggressively when he shits inside your work boot, or you “accidentally” step on his paw because he’s too stupid and inconsiderate to not lay directly behind you, and you spend the rest of the day feeling like a dick.

    Did I really get Defcon-3 level angry at an eight-week old puppy?  What the fuck is wrong with me?  There was a true moment of realization.  My patience was unbelievably underdeveloped.  I had to text my dad.  “How the fuck did you raise kids?”  This is miserable and he’s still well within the Craigslist-cute sales window.

    Am I a monster?  You start getting all these crazy self-doubts.  If I lack the patience to house break a puppy, I’ve got no chance at enduring the hardships of real-life.  After watching the puppy brutally force himself upon a stuffed animal (no boner, just juvenile power humping), I had to ask the vet if he there were any two-for-one specials on neutering.  The dog and I could go in for the snip at the same time.  If a puppy is this bad, I’m never making human children.

    Turns out, this particular veterinarian doesn’t offer any cross-species specials of this nature.  The only answer is to deal with it.  Keep pointing your finger.  “No.”  “No.”  No until you’re blue in the face, desperately trying to get this adorable fuzz bucket to grasp the most basic monosyllabic words in the English language. “No.”  “Shit.”  “Sit.”  “Parvo.”

    And he won’t understand any of it.  His tongue will hang out of his mouth, his tail will wag, and he’ll look up at you in so many stupid shades of gray.  Then he’ll go around the corner and piss on the carpet and there’s nothing you can do about it.

    Finally, after several weeks of chew-toy hell, Tater Swift (the puppy) hasn’t pissed or shat in the house in four-straight days.  My wishes for Parvo have not been granted. He knows how to sit, shit, and shake-hands.  And he’s currently sound asleep, twitching in a puppy dream world, head propped on my left foot.

    Was it all worth it?

    No.

    I should have got a fish.