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Maya Mayhem
Sarah Carson
for Spotlight
Good lord, what have I done.
Since we lost our German Shepard cross a few months ago there has been a definite void in our family, and I knew that we would be getting another dog at some point. The breed didn’t necessarily matter, although I have definitely become partial to Shepards, and most definitely to larger dogs.
I was not prepared to fulfill Ben’s repeated request for a Chihuahua. I could just picture a dog that small making its entrance into our lives only to exit rather quickly in the talons of our resident eagle right before our eyes.
I can’t afford intense therapy for all of my children at once… And besides, with 3 little boys in residence, I need something just a bit sturdier – preferably something without matchstick bones…
One thing I knew with absolute certainty – I was in the market for a 1 to 2 year old dog. Not a puppy.
NOT a puppy.
And then the inevitable. She lay in her kennel, in all of her 6 week old Rottweiler cuteness at the recent Rescue Society open house, and every ounce of my good sense vanished.
I mean – what chance does good sense stand against “cute”??
I don’t think I have a limb that has not felt the sharp bite of “cute” little puppy teeth.
My workout mat has become her “cute” little pee pad.
Each morning I do a “cute shoe clean-up” in the front yard so the kids have something to wear to school.
I have scrubbed her “cute” little mucky paw prints off my freshly cleaned floor.
My sheets have “cute” little holes chewed in them after hanging on the line.
I have picked up “cute” little puppy poops from nearly every corner of the house. Yeah…cute.
Our laundry room has become her nighttime nursery.
Our yard is littered with a hundred dollars worth of squeaky toys and plastic bones (while the puppy lays in a flower bed chewing sticks). Her other favourite chewy is a corner of my couch; so long to any fantasies I might have had to new furniture.
Our house is filled with even more squeals and shrieks than ever – especially by Jack, who dances around in attempts to keep the puppy from gnawing off his toes.
Our other dog, Chase, is thrilled with her little buddy, but the cat is often found on a chair, looking down in complete disgust at the new idiot in the family.
And so, I say goodbye to yet another good sized chunk of sanity.
I can only shake my head in wonder at my own stupidity as I snuggle her warm body against mine.
I still hear from time to time the faint strains of good sense talking; “not a puppy…not a puppy…”
And then she snuggles closer and yawns her “cute” puppy yawn and once again, the battle for supremacy between good sense and “cute” is won; Maya is here to stay.
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