She’s really cute. She has these big brown eyes that look up at you with that “I’m adorable and you should love me a lot” look. She’s small and round and energetic and thrilled to see you every time you go anywhere near her. She sleeps the majority of the time. She even sleeps through the night in a little metal crate I can’t believe she finds comfortable. She’s only gone to the bathroom in the house a handful of times, most of which were probably my fault because I was too busy doing what I wanted to do instead of grabbing the leash and running for the backyard. She’s soft and fluffy and she learned to fetch in about two minutes. She rolls over so you can rub her belly after a nap. She doesn’t know her tail is attached to her body, which makes for quite a funny game of chase. Her fur is a beautiful caramel color and she has these silly white paws. She’s hypoallergenic and non-shedding. She likes peanut butter . . . a lot. She likes to chew . . . everything. Her name is Macie and she’s really cute.





She’s also driving me absolutely crazy.



My friends offered all kinds of positive encouragement when I told them my husband and I planned to surprise our kids with a puppy for Christmas. I know most of them were rather shocked that their Type A friend with a hint of obsessive-compulsive disorder running through her veins was going to allow an animal to inhabit her home, but they didn’t do anything to squelch the idea. They told me I could definitely do it. They told me I would love having a pet. They told me it would be loads of fun. They said it would be a great learning experience for our entire family.



What in the world were they thinking?



Macie has been with us for five weeks now and honestly, I’m thinking if I was going to put our family through this kind of insanity, I should have just had another baby. Seriously friends, it’s one thing to become a slave to a miracle created out of love between you and your husband after drinking too much red wine. It’s an entirely different beast to become a slave to a ridiculously expensive ball of fur that will never learn to talk, use a toilet, or wipe her feet before coming through the front door. If you think I’m being dramatic, I have three words for you . . . get a puppy. A puppy is easily as much work as a newborn, and remember, puppies don’t wear diapers. So not only do you have to clean up poop, you have to clean it off the brand new linen tree skirt your mother made you for your anniversary.



If I’d had a baby, I would be able to stay inside when it’s forty degrees, windy, and raining sideways. I could spend my days snuggled up on the couch with a ten-pound gift from God attached to my chest making adorable little sucking noises and reminding me to treasure every precious minute of life. Instead, I’m spending all my time freezing in the woods behind my house waiting for a ten-pound canine walking in circles trying to decide exactly which patch of the earth is the best spot for her to leave her mark.



If I’d gone ahead and had a third child, I would be receiving lovely gifts in the mail every other day – smocked outfits and tiny onesies and beautiful picture frames. With a new puppy, all I’m receiving are outrageous bills from the vet, who’s had more one-on-one time with me in the last month than my husband.



A newborn would have given me a reprieve from the busyness of life, the power to say “no,” if you will. People stop expecting you to fill your plate with social events and activities and duties when you’ve just had a new baby. You can turn down the many requests for help and volunteering and baked goods for a few relaxing months after you’ve given birth. But a puppy? Please, pile on the requests people. I don’t have anything going on. I can’t leave the house for more than two hours and when I am home, I’m interrupted every fifteen minutes to take a dog outside to sniff every blade of grass in the backyard, but no worries. I have plenty of free time on my hands. What can I do for you?



Babies smell wonderful. Puppies smell like . . . small dogs.



Babies don’t have teeth. Puppies have lots of teeth . . . sharp ones. And they like to use them.



When you put a baby down, she stays in one spot. When you put a puppy down, she runs right to your favorite rug and begins chewing it to bits.



After you give a baby a bath, you get to wrap him up in a warm towel and bury your head in the silky folds of his neck. After you give a puppy a bath, you need a raincoat.



Oh, and did I mention not a single person has offered to bring me dinner.



Okay, you’re right. I am being a tad dramatic. I’m not experiencing sleep deprivation, my nipples aren’t sore, and I don’t have an ice pack in my underwear. But after a month with Macie, I do believe there is something called post-puppy depression. And folks, I’ve got it.



I should probably make a confession here. The truth is . . . I wanted a puppy. Or at least, I wanted my children to have a puppy. I’ve never had a dog. I’m not a dog person - I believe we established that in a previous post. Still, I wanted my children to experience life with a pet. I don’t want them to grow up to be like me – I want them to smile when they see a dog on the street, not turn around and walk the other way. I felt a puppy would serve to bring even more love into our home. I thought she would be another special family member to cherish. I hoped she would make our daughter stop asking me when I’m going to have another baby. I even had the notion that a puppy might be a good form of daily “let it go” therapy for my OCD issues. Hey, statistics show pet owners lead happier, healthier, longer lives – I’m all for happiness, health, and longevity. And of course, like all naïve mothers out there, I also believed a pet would help teach my children to be more responsible.



“It will be good for Charlie and Libby to see what it’s like to care for another living creature.”



Yes, I actually said that. Out loud.



What in the world was I thinking?



I’m fairly certain I don’t need medication for my post-puppy depression. I did see a sign last week in front of a strip mall that said “Puppy adoptions today!” and immediately wondered if anyone would notice if I slipped Macie in one of the cages with the other poor, sad, homeless, orphan dogs. I think someone would adopt her right away. Remember, she’s really cute. Unfortunately, we paid to have that microchip thing inserted underneath our puppy’s skin so we would never lose her. Not so sure that was our best move.



I’ve had numerous inquiries into our puppy adventure over the past few weeks. Everyone is eager to know how things are going with our new addition. My response is the same almost every time.



“It’s a big adjustment, but I know it will be fine.”



Despite many moments of buyer’s remorse, I do believe it’s going to be fine. I feel confident that pet ownership will get easier and our family will begin to find the blessings in it. Macie won’t always be a puppy. One day, she will be an adult dog who doesn’t need four bathroom breaks every hour. One day, she will be able to roam the house with our complete trust in her ability not to damage anything. One day, she will lie at our feet without trying to eat our toes. One day, she will not think of the leash as her worst enemy. And one day, my kitchen will return to its usual state of order and cleanliness and lose the chew toys and baby gates causing my recent heart palpitations.





For now, however, we have a puppy. She’s challenging. She’s exasperating. She’s prompted several “WHO DO WE KNOW WHO WANTS THIS DOG BECAUSE I CAN’T DO THIS FOR ONE MORE SECOND!” phone calls to my husband. She’s even been the cause of one near nervous breakdown when said husband informed me that Cavachons typically live fifteen to eighteen years. Eighteen years. Eighteen years? Are you telling me I’ll be taking this dog out in the rain and the cold and the Atlanta humidity in late August for the next two decades of my life?





Oh. My. Word.





But . . . it will be fine. I know it will be fine. We will adjust and one day soon, we will all be fine. Until then, we will remain optimistic, continue praying for patience, and stay focused on Macie’s positives, or at least the one positive I can find . . . the fact that despite her willingness to look me in the face and squat on my kitchen floor less than thirty seconds after I took her outside, she really is cute.