Hey, all,
This week is a bit lacking in the creative department, but with good reason. Allow me to introduce my new puppy, MOUSSE!
Mousse is a 10-week-old Standard Poodle and a southern gentleman, hailing from Tennessee. His name comes from our first date: Andrew ordered the pappardelle al ragu; I ordered the chocolate mousse. I’ve heard you should meet a dog before taking them in to assess the connection. That’s logical enough. Call it luck or fate or whatever cosmic force you prefer, but the second Mousse and I locked eyes, I just knew.
We’ve been pretty busy around the clock tending to this guy, learning the mysterious, constant, and occasionally heartbreaking needs of a puppy (those crate whimpers flatten me). Night two, I made myself a “bed” of three pillows by his crate and chugged wine to numb the pain of the hardwood floor. My back still hurts. I’ve been on and off the phone with the vet, learning how to treat hookworm, and how to get him to eat. Walks begin with dragging him down the block until he decides it’s time to taste every piece of stringy, dried grass in sight.
For every hour of frustration is infinite sweetness gained. Mousse is a total lover. He’s forced me to be present in a way I hadn’t been for a long time. To savor the small wonders of “sit” for a piece of boiled chicken, or the way his toy keys hang from his mouth as he trots around his playpen. Each day offers something new to gush over, even in moments of defeat.
Naturally I’ve already cried over the uncertainty—wondering if I’m cut out for something to rely on me full time, if my relationship will suffer under these new demands, if I was wrong for choosing a breed so smart it feels like I’m the one being trained. But Mousse is warming my lap as I type this, his head flopped over my arm, unbothered by the click of the keys. That’s enough to surrender.
girl, stay strong. i feel you on those crate cries. they hurt the soul. YOU GOT THIS