Wednesday, September 1, 2010
What's in a Name?
Daisy has finally learned her name. This is something of a miracle because we are a family of pet names (no pun intended) used so persistently that our autistic son has finally given up saying things like, “My name isn’t Wombat. It’s Jack.” He now simply accepts that we call him wombat, sweetie, baby, sugar-lump, whatever.
Since joining our family, Daisy has been called many things, most of which aren’t Daisy:
No No Bad Dog
ARRRGGGHH BAD DOG
Then there are a number of variations on Daisy:
And of course, she’s our Furry Golden Sunshine.
Like I said, it’s a miracle she learned her name in just six weeks.
You can’t walk past Daisy without stooping to pet her. It. Is. Not. Possible. She’s cute beyond description, and when she looks at you with those big brown eyes, you just HAVE to veer off course, stoop, and pet her. She gives new meaning to the phrase animal magnetism. Walking her around the neighborhood involves a lot of stopping so strangers can lavish love on this pup. No one is immune to her charms.
Which is a good thing, because she’s ruining my bathroom rugs and if she weren’t so gosh darn cute.... Those of you who have had pups or children know exactly what I'm sayin'.
I don’t care what her breeder said, Daisy is NOT entirely sensible. She is mostly sensible during the day, but at night she runs wild like a crazy dog and channels her inner Hoover. She growls and barks and attacks blankets. She runs around on our bed so fast she’s a blur.
All day, every day, she eats EVERYTHING she can find. In addition to rugs, she eats grape vines, grass, leaves, rocks, rabbit poo, socks, underpants, etc. It is rather disconcerting, if perfectly normal, that everything she finds goes into her mouth. She is learning the command Drop! But usually, I have to pry whatever she’s found out of her mouth.
She delights in getting the end of the toilet paper roll and running across the house with a stream of TP flowing behind.
No No Bad Dog!
Daisy greets everyone every morning with a furiously wagging tail and lots of kisses. She can’t stand for us all to be upstairs, above the baby gate, when she is downstairs, below it. She will bark non-stop until one of her peeps comes to be with her. When we go for walks, she can’t stand for one of us to get too far from her; she herds us all together.
When Daisy barks at a strange dog in the distance, the fur on the top of her head and all along her spine stands on end, and she looks like nothing so much as an angry gremlin. Remember that movie? As soon as the strange dog comes within two feet of her, however, she gets submissive, sniffs butts, makes friends, and then tries to jump on her new friend’s head.
She’s a nibbler. Sometimes she nibbles our hands, because she loves us, and sometimes she nibbles her tail, because it is there. Today, she was chasing her tail, spinning round and round even after she caught the thing. Then, she sat down and stared at it intently. You know the look a baby gets when she notices her hands for the first time? That’s how Daisy was looking at her tail. “Huh? What’s this? Is it mine? Oh, how amazing!” Then she started chewing her back right paw contemplatively.
Her belly. Oh my gosh. Her belly is like velvet, so soft and warm and rubbable. Microsoft is telling me that rubbable isn’t a word. But in a universe containing puppy bellies—girl puppy bellies—it most certainly is a word.
Contemplate warm and velvety puppy bellies and try not to smile.