Who Let the Dog Out?

You may or may not know we have a dog.  A white German Shepherd, named Wrangler.

I can't show you a picture, because I don't have any.

Why?

Because Wrangler is a rebound dog. 

My favorite, best, wonderful, amazing dog Neo died suddenly and unexpectedly at the age of 5.  He was the greatest dog ever. He was with me when I was with my asshole ex, and was part of the reason I got through all of that.  He got bloat and died on our kitchen floor.

I was nearly 8 months pregnant with PJ.

I was devastated and couldn't handle being home alone, not hearing the sound of a dog.  John was also devastated.  So we got the great idea to get a puppy when I was, yes, EIGHT MONTHS PREGNANT.  I am still not sure why none of my friends tried to talk some sense into me, but alas.

Wrangler is not a bad dog -- he's good with the kids.  But he's annoying, whiny, and doesn't listen.  He's scared of dish towels (one fell on the floor, and he ran out of the kitchen like it was a war).  He whines incessantly.  He is stupid.  He is everything Neo was not.

Anyway, we have Wrangler.  PJ gets a huge kick out of chasing him around with toys, watching him run around outside.  Maggie also laughs at him constantly.  So he's okay in my book because he's good with our kids.

PJ has been very much into giving him treats. "Dog treat Mama!"  And also putting cheese in with his food.    He's very commanding.

"Doggie, eat!"

"Doggie, go!"

"Doggie, tit (sit)!"

This morning we were about to leave.

"We've got to let the doggie in!"

PJ goes running to the door.  Turns around, sees me following, and runs back to me.

"NO MAMA!  I DO!" and pushes me.

I stop and wait.  "Okay, baby, you let the doggie in."

Opens the door to our porch, walks to the screen door.

"Come in doggie!"

He held the door open like we do so the door doesn't hit the dog on his way in.

"Dog treat mama?"

Yeah, baby.  Dog treat.