As I write this, Poppy (our newish puppy), is chewing on one of my long searched for, much loved, orange cushions. She proudly sits upon the foot stool, having dragged the cushion off the couch and rips it apart with her razor sharp little teeth.
We call to her to stop. She looks up at us with her giant brown eyes, as if we’ve interrupted something critical. She acquiesces briefly. Then resumes chewing the cushion with gusto.
And so is life with a puppy.
The last time we had a puppy was many years before Poss was born. Lucy is now an old dame, cranky in her senior years; she’s generally content sitting near me and sleeping for as many hours as her old bladder will allow.
Poppy on the other hand? She sleeps grudgingly, like a toddler who is worried she is missing out on something. One eye open, almost literally. Much like Poss actually.
The two of them have formed a tight bond; Poppy lies alongside her, snuggled tightly into her body while she watches YouTube video after YouTube video, hour after hour, then loudly demands attention when it all gets too much.
She wants to be walked, she wants to be played with, she wants attention lavished on her. She has stolen one of Poss’ soft toys, making it her own. Dragging it from room to room, you know it’s time to play when she presents it to you. She’ll cheekily attempt to nip at fingers that push buttons instead of tickling tummies.
Poss will chat with her about her day; they lie on the bed colouring together (or more accurately Poppy tries to eat the pencils as Poss colours) sharing those secrets that a girl can only tell her dog. Poppy listens quietly and nods in all the right places, because that’s what dogs do.
Poss bends in and Poppy quickly takes the chance to kiss her face; a wet tongue reaching out and lavishing her with love, as her little puppy body wiggles and squirms. It makes me cringe every time, but Poss light up with joy as she giggles and squeals.
So I’ll overlook the chewed cushion. And the accidents on the rug. And the bits of kale and carrot that Poppy has stolen out of Hugo’s bowl then left scattered all over the house.
I’ll even overlook the broken nights of sleep, where Poppy only wants to play and refuses to sleep, long after Poss has succumbed and is snoring softly in the bed beside us.
Because a girl needs her puppy. Or so it seems.