Today was the first day of the rest of my new life.
I set the alarm for 6 and bundled up and went outside for a few minutes. Then I came inside for a few minutes more, then walked out the front door for a six-block walk. When I arrived home, I went in the backyard again, then prepared myself for work and went into the backyard again.
That is my life with a puppy.
With Lizzie, to be precise.
Lizzie has been with me for nine days, but this is the first day that really counts because after a week of vacation, I’m back at work and Lizzie is now on a routine.
Over my lunch hour, I’ll run home again and spend more time outside. I haven’t decided if we’re going for a walk again or not. It would be a good way to burn up a it of her puppy enthusiasm, but it’s not like walking does any good because she never pauses for a bathroom break. Neither does Neecy, the other dog in my house.
Maybe it’s a girl thing. My first dog, the sainted Alex, would stop at every tree, every twig, every rock, every blade of grass that was a bit taller than the others, first to sniff, then to bestow a liquid blessing on it. Long after his bladder had run dry, the ever-hopeful Alex would lift a leg, just in case he could mark one more object.
I’ve never owned a puppy before so any housebreaking tips are welcome. I have puppy pads around the house, and Lizzie is fairly good about piddling on those. She goes behind a chair for any major transgressions.
This is Lizzie. If I can figure how how to make her show up as more than a gray box, I will.