Seymour’s Fat Lady

I can’t imagine ever having children. For a long time I hesitated about getting a dog, because I’m such an overachiever and a perfectionist that I’m afraid I’m going to mess up some poor puppy’s life. I’m sick to my stomach with fear that I’m doing this all wrong.

Here are some of my puppy concerns:

What if he won’t ever stop gnawing on my clothing, which ultimately means he’s the boss of me?

What if I’ve scarred him for life by taking him for a 20-minute walk in 30-degree weather without putting a doggie sweater on him?

What if we’re doing the ear medicine wrong and the ear mites and yeast infection never go away?

Is it bad that he chews the newspaper on the bottom of his pen? Bites the outside of his crate?

Should I give him a new toy every day, as one puppy book suggested, or should I do as the Dog Whisperer advises and keep the toys to a minimum?

Am I stunting his growth by limiting his toys? What if his neurons don’t fire because he’s permanently bored and then he’ll be permanently dim?

Will I spoil him by giving him more toys? Keeping him out of the pen more?

I’m keeping loosely to the house-training schedule advised by the Monks of New Skete in the Art of Raising a Puppy book, which advocates letting him out of the pen for limited bouts of play and exercise, but keeping him penned for at least two hours at a time.

The woman at the pet store told me the Dog Whisperer and the Monks of New Skete are sadists and that I should listen to Ian Dunbar’s dog advice.

Too many cooks in the kitchen of my head.

And what does my instinct say? That everything’s fine. That he’s at that age where he’s learning dominance and submission games, and he’s testing his limits, and it’s normal.

The last time I played with him this afternoon, he sniffed my butt like I was another dog. I think he thinks I’m his littermate and Rod is the alpha dog. Figures. Everyone likes Rod better.