I know you’re all dying for an update on Frankie.
Okay, maybe not dying.
Mildly curious?
Just accidentally clicked on this post?
Or, could it be that I just needed an outlet before I started Googling emotional support for puppy moms?
Either way, buckle up, because venting here is my therapy and I’m in need of support… and a lot of it!
I remember Gracie as the world’s most perfect puppy – soft, angelic, practically floating around the house on a cloud of obedience. Except… that’s a total lie. I don’t remember her being a puppy at all and even in her adult stages, she certainly wasn’t a cloud of obedience. In fact, I did a lousy job training her. Just ask my youngest son. Gracie was my emotional support dog. And, that’s all she needed to be.
I compare getting a puppy to childbirth: you forget the pain or you’d never do it again.
Modern medicine at least gives moms epidurals. Where’s the epidural for puppy owners? And if there is one, can it work for 2, 3, maybe even 4 months at a time? Asking for a friend.
Consuming alcohol crossed my mind, but I’d just fall asleep and wake up to Frankie having turned my entire family room into a hodge podge of “things that use to look vaguely familiar.”
I don’t remember Gracie ever chewing on cords. Frankie? Frankie thinks cords are her calling. Her passion. Her art form.
If it plugs in, lights up, charges, powers, or connects – she wants it in her mouth.
The Newborn Parallels Are Real
When I open her kennel after a nap, she does the full newborn stretch – the back arch, the tiny yawn, the “pick me up, Mother” routine. OK, maybe she doesn’t arch her back the way a baby does, but she does roll over onto her back when she stretches. Either way, it works.
I melt.
She wins.
If I could press pause on that soft, sleepy sweetness – just hold it a little longer before the wild puppy energy comes roaring back – I absolutely would.
Crate Training: My Public Apology
When I got Gracie, I thought crates were cruel.
Cages.
Punishment boxes.
Prisons.
Oh naïve, dumb Lisa.
Crates are God’s gift to puppies and their humans. After extensive Googling, AI interrogations, and lurking in Facebook groups full of people who claim they’re a dog trainer, I can say confidently:
Her crate is her safe haven.
Her nervous system’s OFF-switch.
Her spa.
Her sanctuary.
My salvation.
I’ve always had trouble calling it a crate. Bed sounds so much nicer. Her happy place. Her “thank you for saving me from myself” chamber.
In all my puppy reading, I was excited to learn that a 16-week-old puppy needs 4 – 6 naps a day. Reading that, I swear I heard angels. Complete with trumpets… and a full gospel choir.
But mornings are tough. I get her up at 5:30 am She’s been in her bed since 9:30 pm the night before, so she’s done really well with holding her tiny bladder through the night. She goes outside immediately and proceeds to do both of her jobs. Then, it’s coffee time for me and since day one, she spends the first hour, sometimes more, cuddling with me – alternating between lying on the couch or my lap.
That’s the part I love.
But then there’s a 3-hr. awake window after breakfast and that’s the tough one for me. The rest of the day, 90-minute awake periods are all she can handle. Any longer than that and she becomes a wind-up toy possessed by the spirit of chaos.
Sometimes she’s so overstimulated I can’t even catch her by the halter to put her in her bed. I swear it’s like trying to catch a greased squirrel.
But when I do catch her and place her in her bed, it’s like pure magic. Cue the angel choir.
Silence.
Peace.
Gratitude.
Both of us humming “thank you” as she drifts off.
And the really great thing? She doesn’t protest her bed at all. Maybe a couple of times, she let out a few barks, but they’re ignored and she settles right down. And often, when I open her door so she can come out, she’s so content, she decides she needs more time.
Just like babies, puppies go through phases. Some adorable. Some… character building. I keep asking:
When will she stop chewing… everything?
When will she stop zooming around like she’s training for the Puppy Olympics?
When will potty training stop feeling like a hostage negotiation?
But then I remember:
Around 6 mos. of age, she’ll calm down. A few more months, she’ll be even better. In a year she’ll be a full-blown dog. And before I know it, if we’re lucky, she’ll be old like Gracie was – and I’ll wonder where the time went.
I won’t remember the chaos. (Although I’ll have a husband to remind me.)
I won’t remember the frayed cords.
I won’t remember the barking or the zoomies, when she ran so fast, she did unintended somersaults.
Or the, “do you hate me?” puppy growls.
I know I won’t remember, because I don’t remember Gracie doing any of it, and that was back when my brain still had storage space. Apparently selective amnesia is nature’s way of making sure we keep having babies and adopting dogs.
Grab a drink (I know I will) and let’s toast:
To the puppy stage – the phase no one warns you about because if they did, no one would ever get a dog again. Even if they did warn you, you wouldn’t listen. Their cuteness is intoxicating.
Here’s to the biting, the barking, the zoomies, the “is she possessed?” moments, and the way she can go from angelic cuddle muffin to feral woodland creature in under six seconds.
And here’s to the future: the calm, wise, loyal companion she’ll become… the one who will sit beside me like she’s always been perfect, and I’ll barely remember the chaos she put me through.
To Frankie – may her baby teeth soon fall out, her naps lengthen, and may I remember that underneath all that fluff and energy, is my future best friend.
Woof and Cheers!
