Yesterday I took a shower around two in the afternoon.
No, I’m not lazy — quite the opposite. That was the exact moment where I had a free moment to crate our new puppy, Gunther, and rinse off all the dog hair and drool from my body.
He threw up on me Friday on our way home from the breeder, but it was a long ride; bouncing him up and down with my knee probably didn’t help either.
Meet our new baby boy, Gunther.
He’s adorable, isn’t he? I know — he’s topped the “Adorable Meter” as far as puppy cuteness goes. At only eight weeks of age, he has been living with us for four full days now.
This takes me back to being a new mom with a newborn. They require your undivided attention unless you want them to get into things like a rough neighborhood gang, adding electrical cords to their diet, considering them as “fiber,” and thinking your toes are mere appetizers for the main meal that lie ahead.
Within four days he has managed to climb up and down the stairwell from our main level of the house into the basement.
He knows his name.
He climbs up the main level steps onto the third level of our home — he refuses to climb down.
I don’t blame him. I’ve fallen a few times. Slippery wooden steps are not for soft-padded puppies.
His brother and sister didn’t know what to make of him for the first two days. Crusher thought he was just a distant relative staying for the night. He then started complaining about the ruckus Gunther was making during his first overnight “visit”; arguing with his father and me about leaving home to find better living arrangements, packing his suitcase with canned dog food and his favorite chew toy. He decided to stay only because he claimed it was, “Really cold outside.”
Lucy couldn’t understand Gunther’s incessant crying during his first overnight stay either. She insisted on getting my attention to shut him up by sitting on my head and licking my eyelids, eyebrows and forehead until I surrendered.
Dave didn’t sleep. The soft whimpering turned into ear-splitting hell within five minutes; Gunther continually barked. All. Night. Long.
I slept through the whole ordeal with the exception of Lucy sitting on my head and giving me a face bath. Being deaf has its advantages, and in this particular situation I was super glad I had pure silence to deal with as opposed to the other three people in the house.
Let’s just say the next night, he wasn’t sleeping in his crate up in our bedroom anymore. He now sleeps in our bed. The nights since then have been pure bliss with the exception of Gunther only falling off of the bed once…maybe twice.
Yes. Everyone seems to be adjusting. Crusher is now under the impression that he is the Alpha dog of the house, and he is dead on. He has also decided to tutor Gunther and quickly let him know who the boss is. As Sarge would do when he was alive, Crusher gently takes Gunther’s neck into his jaws to give it slight squeeze. “Hey,” he motions, “You don’t bite my paws, understand?”
And, so he sleeps — for now. He loves the snow and is fascinated with Crusher; following him wherever he goes.
He likes to stand either right behind me or walk right in front of me so I can trip and fall dying from a massive brain hemorrhage.
When I don’t see him after three minutes, I think he must be chewing on computer cords somewhere. I envision the electricity flickering on and off while hearing a “Psffffft” sound from an electrical short. I then think of the cat from “Christmas Vacation.”
GUNTHER! Where are youuuuuu????
I found him–gnawing on Dave’s slipper. I guess he’s hungry.