The Pupper Has Landed

So the deed is done, the pupper collected and I am now officially the sole responsible carer for one demonic white fluffball with a penchant for cheese. Sole carer eh? Bar babysitting (do other people’s kids really count anyways?) the last time I had sole care of anything was two goldfish in 2001 and that did not end up well. However times have moved on, I have grown up and fingers crossed Archie will not be floating atop a bowl of water anytime soon.

I have to say it’s been only a week, but that week has been LONG. It feels like this little terreur poilue has been around much longer than a mere week. But what of it,  how has it been? Well it’s a week spent in a daze of equal parts bliss, fear and pain. Pain for the sore feet of course. Boy, I knew puppy teeth were sharp but my poor feet have been undergoing a relentless attack these past few days. Whether slippered, shoelaced or barefoot, my boy has a foot fetish and my poor tootsies are paying the price. And let me tell you, a sharp bite of my achilles heel doth butter you precisely zero parsnips young Archie, so I’m nipping that behavior right in the bud.

Bliss of course because he’s an adorable cloud of joy, pink of taut little belly & button of nose. His joyfulness at a rope ball is something to behold and his snuffles as he wakes up every morning melt this cold cynical heart o mine. Ridiculously enough he seems to trust me (I haven’t told him about the fish yet) and I’ve got myself the little fluffy shadow I’ve always dreamed of.

And terrifying? Jeez yes. Now I know why most parents I know find a chilled bottle of white wine in the fridge as essential as a bottle of Calpol. This sole caring lark is stressful! He’s only been with me a short time but I’ve already worried I’ve broken him at least three times. Whether it’s falling off the sofa, licking slugs or shooting off like a mad thing with a wide eyed determination to cross the road that he can’t yet see.

Now before you say anything, I’m not one of those types who will call their dog their fur baby, this is a dog, not a child - though if you call your actual human child a fur baby I won’t judge you… merely congratulate you on your hirsute offspring & unusual naming talents. However there is something to be said on the similarities between becoming a first time pet owner and parent I reckon, an affinity to be struck. I’ve seen newbie parents first hand, they look tired as hell, quite confused and definitely stressed. Feelings I can entirely identify with after just one week. That’s to say nothing of the broken sleep, the ongoing concern of what happens if I fuck this right up? Yup! Got that too, and that’s before I even start the fact that since my overgrown cotton wool ball has arrived I only finish 1 in 5 cups of tea hot, and showers lasting longer than 2 minutes seem a long distant memory.

However, for all of these gripes, the stress, the fears, the lack of hot teas and showers, I am loving life with my Archie. Yes he’s nippy (both in teeth and flight of paw), and while I have never aspired to practice picking up dog poo as a hobby before, there really is nothing like being awoken with a gentle lick to the nose (mine, not his) and I’m super glad he’s here.

And for those among you who might say I'm a little too over enthusiastic about owning a dog, posting too many pictures, creating him an Instagram (yes, I'm one of those owners) & generally being in love with my pup, I'll say this to you: I don't care, do feel free to mute me. Cos this is something I've wanted for nigh on 20 years and coming at time when I could really do with it. It literally is my dream come true, and right now I'm revelling in it. So even though I can see the further mischief in these button eyes of his I already feel the decision to bring young Archibald into my life is probably one of my better ones, and I can’t wait to see how he unfolds…. foot fetishes aside.

Sophington + 1

So, it’s been a while hasn’t it? I’ve not written in an age, this is not the place for the whys and wherefores of my silence, what’s most important is I’m back…. And I’ve got a secret.

Oooh, that’s all rather mysterious innit? I mean, one has to admire a good opening paragraphs and a secret confession could not be a better place to start, goodness knows I loves me a good opening line... But what could it be? What matter of intrigue am I up to now? Well I have to confess, it’s not so much a matter of intrigue, more of fear, but let me backtrack a little.

This year has been a really rotten year for me in some respects. I mean yes, am all happy and smiley, loving my job and seemingly got my life in order. Seemingly. However, like many of us out there, I’ve always had the odd flirtation with mental health issues and depression. Or perhaps it’s always flirted with me, if one can describe flirting as sneaking along behind me like my very own Uriah Heap, springing out on me when I least expect it, like one of those face hugger things from Alien. Or is it Predator? Alien’s the one with the chest burster I know that much, but the face hugger? Am not so sure. Anyways, so this year anxiety and depression paid one of its increasingly regular visits to my life, and for the first time this year, I just didn’t feel resilient enough on my own to tackle the onslaught… So this summer, I hatched a plan.

Now, I’m a planner. My mates will tell you I like a good plan. I have a soft spot for a tidy spreadsheet, and I always feel both festival packing and a trip to the local Sainsburys are enhanced by a list. But I’m not working towards a weekly shop, my issues aren’t easily solved with a pivot table, and I don’t need to pack a tent for what I’m trying to tackle. What I need is a focus, something outside of myself, a positive influence on my life, and some way to put a smile back on my face. So I’m getting me a dog.

About bloody time some would say, knowing what a dog fan I am. Others might say that I need to spend less time thinking about a dog and get a man instead. And that getting a dog would just about be the worst mistake I could ever make in the life. That mystery person may have said the same about painting my living room wall purple, and to be fair, although I retorted that by that point already made way worse mistakes than that & come out smiling, I never did paint my living room wall purple so they might’ve had a point. But the die has been cast, the biodegradable poo bags bought, deposit paid and today, I’m off to meet my boy for the first time.

I love dogs it has to be said, my family has always had dogs, goodness, my aunt is a blimmin dog trainer our fam love dogs that much. And I’ve have always wanted a dog of my own, a little rufty tufty one with a moustache, or a big lollopy loungy one that lies on my feet as I work, and as I now work from home, my timing could not be better. I guess one of the things about working from home, is it can be kinda lonely. In my line of work I’m often out and about visiting customers, but on those days when I’m within just my own 4 walls with Me, Myself and I for company, and when I flip my laptop lid down at the end of the day, what’s changed? I’ve got no one there to chat about my day with, no partner, no family, no housemates, just some houseplants and trust me, when they start talking back, you know you have problems. I want a little dude. A little dude who gets me outta bed in the morning, forces me out to exercise and socialize, and make new friends with. I want a button nosed, enthusiastic fluffball of a friend to keep me company of a day and night. I’ve dogsat enough godammnit, I want my own little chum, and I want him now. OK, maybe not quite now, as there’s still one thing left to do.

Yes, I’ve selected my breed according to my circumstances. I’ve met my breeder (and the pup’s parents in situ), I’ve been kept abreast of the puppies’ development as they grow, rough and tumbling round the breeder’s house like an explosion of cotton wool balls, and yes I’ve got my insurance policy chosen, my vet selected, my dog bed bought and I am starting to puppy proof my flat. I’ve even chosen his name… Archie. Well, technically Archibald Percival Odin O'Surname to be precise (initials APOO as you just know he's going to be a little shit at times) but Archie for short. But there is one thing left to do, and that is to tell my mother who most thoroughly WILL NOT approve. So wish me luck peeps, because once I’ve met my boy for the first time, my little 900g fluffy pal, wet nose to dry, and first collar in hand, it’s finally time to break the news to my mum that there’s a grand dog on the way, and unlike any purple walls, he’s here to stay.

POSTSCRIPT: My mother has now been informed and was 100% supportive of my decision. Turns out  1. I had nothing to be worried about and 2. a photograph of a fluffball pupster is enough to win anyone over!  So thank you mum, and now we just have to count down the days until Archie arrives! Bring. It. On.