I am not one of those people who believes that pets are in any way a substitute for children, but I have to say, having a puppy - the very first of my adult life - has given me a whole new terrifying appreciation for the world of the parent, particularly the stay-at-home sort.
I realized this after I arrived back in town with Obie, my 12-week-old white English bull terrier, and was in the process of logging my first full day with him in my charge.
I don't know if it was the new language I suddenly acquired (pretty much all relating to bowel movements and the consistency thereof, but peppered with frequent exclamations of "What a big boy you are!" and "Who's the best boy in this house?" or the ridiculous sense of accomplishment I felt when I finally managed to get into the shower by 1 p.m. (I distinctly remember thinking, with at least the pride that in the normal course I reserve for running a marathon, "Hey, I'm doing alright, I'm clean!"), but somewhere along the line, I had some faint understanding of what it must be like to be a new mom.
When my red-haired niece arrived home from work, I practically leapt upon her, Obie-style, and began a protracted, half-guilty, half-hostile explanation of what I had done all day (bugger all, by my old standards) and why (I had too much of what cannot be measured or even seen to do).
I should say, my niece works with special-needs children all day, and so has huge reserves of patience and knowledge. She was, however, rather startled by this demented special-needs version of me, swearing as usual but simultaneously babbling in a high-pitched small animal-and-baby voice, effectively apologizing for the hurricane which to all appearances had abruptly attacked the house.
There were dog toys everywhere, bits of food on the carpet, dishes in the sink.
My hair was washed but unkempt, there was green guck on my T-shirt and not even the usual minimal trace of makeup on my face, which may be why, when I failed to yield to a motorist trying to bull his way into my lane the other day, the young driver looked over and snarled, "Honey, Restylane is the new Botox," and why I had not even a feeble comeback at the ready.
My house is a tall, skinny Victorian semi, and all the stupid doorways to all the stupid rooms are now either shut tight or blocked off by giant plastic white baby gates, which, by the way, work only a hair more easily than bloody childproof cupboard locks, one of which I sweated over and wrestled with for two hours before giving up in a tearful rage.
How do new parents cope with this stuff, anyway? I'm dealing with a mere dog and already, and all at once, am rendered stupid by the weight of the responsibility, dizzy with the unexpected pleasures of it and yet horror-struck that I could not survive if this and only this was my life.
So, what did I do that day? I did what I have done every day since.
At the first squeak from the crate where Obie sleeps by my bed (he is too little to make the jump down, and I was afraid he'd fall in the night) - and this moment has arrived at 3:30 a.m., 5 a.m. and 4 a.m. so far - I bolted out of the sack like a sprinter out of the blocks at the sound of the starter's gun, flinging open the door of his crate, swooping him up in my arms, flying down the stairs and around the corner and down the long hall to the kitchen and out the door to the back garden.
(When nature calls for a puppy, it is a matter of perhaps a half a minute. I figure my best time thus far is about 27 seconds, so I am clearly living on the edge.)
Then I carried him back upstairs, cuddled him a while and then put him back in his crate until the next squeak, at which point we repeated the entire process and were up for good for the day.
Then came a whirlwind of getting his breakfast and helping him eat it (he has only baby teeth and hasn't yet figured out how to lick the bowl clean, so I scoop out the last pieces with a spoon, which also teaches him to be gentle with his mouth), wiping his face clean (I wish I was making this up) because he tends to wear part of each meal on his lovely broad nose. Then came the encouraging him to perform his further ablutions, which on day one, he did in the garden but which on day two he began, reluctantly, to do while on our short walks, which on day three he stopped because of noises next door where the neighbours are putting on a new roof. Then came play time, wherein he killed toys with squeakers in them and I praised him and pointed out that a forearm does not a toy constitute.
Everything is a first to him - first pop can in the back lane; first sighting of a bare-chested construction worker (we were equally excited); first speeding car; first unexpected loud bang - and thus scary or potentially so.
Add to that the fact Obie hails from a sprawling country estate in a most beautiful and affluent part of rural Pennsylvania, and now finds himself transported to the bustling downtown of a big city and a lifestyle that is decidedly trailer trash by comparison, and these reassurances that all is not lost take some time.
Like human babies, the animal young sleep a great deal and, in theory, I suppose, this frees the caregiver to get all her regular tasks done.
But in practice, I find, Obie tends to drop off with a thud, usually on the couch across my chest where he then does a spectacular imitation of a midget canine truck driver sleeping off a few too many pops - snoring, groaning, sighing, snorting and emitting silent but lethal farts at irregular but frequent intervals.
He is so handsome (brow furrowed in concentration, white eyelashes visible against his cheek, usually one or another of his ears turned inside out) and strikes such charming poses (rolling over onto his back to expose a pink, fat belly, or, when on his tummy, sticking his legs straight out behind him, like a tadpole) that I can't bring myself to move him and can barely take my eyes from him.
And that's why I got nothing done this week. I am being held hostage by a 20-pound bull terrier with black-and-pink lips and a chesty wiggle, and all I can think is, Stephen Harper is out of his mind if he thinks that paying parents a pittance to stay home with their youngsters is the only way. What parents need is choice, choice and more choice.
cblatchford@globeandmail.ca