I’ve been taken hostage by our three-month-old golden retriever, Greta. She’s been with us for only two weeks, but she’s taken over my life. She doesn’t let me work out, jumping at me, biting my feet, trying to trip me. She robs me of the time that I used to spend on writing fiction. When I sit down at the computer, she gets busy chewing on the cords or the books on the shelves or on the chair legs. My previously immaculate house is a mess now, the floors littered with tennis balls, stuffed animals, rawhide bones, slippers that she keeps pulling off my feet, pillows that she snatches from the couch, torn newspapers, and whatever else she grabs from any place possible. Oh, yeah, she also pulls out the fibers from the carpeting, meticulously destroying it. She puts her front paws on the table, desk, counters, trying to filch whatever is within her reach. When I put her in the crate, she cries so much and so pitifully that I drop everything and let her out.
An unstoppable bundle of energy, Princess Greta (as our daughter calls her) simply ignores the word “no,” even though she’s too smart not to know it. So I already have a clear idea about what kind of a dog she will become: assertive, bossy, sassy. She’s lording over Gunner, our two-year-old German shepherd, and over us as well. But she is so affectionate, kissing me in the mornings, and sucking up to everyone she meets during her walks, wagging her tail, wiggling her entire body, asking for a pat, a rub, a hug, that I can’t help but love her to death.
And that’s what I’ve become—a full-time mom of a demanding puppy. Thank God, after 5 p.m., I relinquish my parenting duties to my husband so I can finally work out and write. Woo-hoo!