Only two more weeks, y’all, 'til alternate side winter parking ends. This = spring. It’s happening.
And this was supposed to be what filled my weekend:
|Wren is a hater. Tiny Dog is looking at me, hoping I will rescue her.|
We started calling the little dude Bubba. The chihuas hated him, which was expected, prima donna mamas. But weirdly, as day two rolled in, Atticus got more spooked and spooky, making sounds like a wookie and jumping away from the pup like he’d seen a spider. It looked like it could escalate to worse.
So he went back to the clinic after 48 hours, after one of us slept on the couch each night. On my night, I held a Nylabone in my fist, so he could eat that instead of my hair. The crate was out of the question: utter bone-rattling despair.
He went home with one of our clinic techs for the rest of the weekend, good woman, and the charm fest began. He is quite dapper.
I have not lived with a puppy for 20 years and now I remember why. In 48 hours he urinated on two dog beds, eight rugs, and no one got any sleep. Tiny Dog was wiped.