Breeding perfection

Part of the reason for choosing the Labradoodle breed of dog was because the boys have eczema and asthma. We were advised that this breed amongst a few others may lessen the adverse impact of a new pet upon our already very complicated family life. To date, this evidence has proved to be true.

Our pet, Thatcher, has won us all over. No-one could ask for a more laid back puppy, huge yet gentle. He sheds like many other dogs but my toils with the vacuum are well worth it. Unlike the rest of the youthful household, he is not in the least bit phased by the whirring of the vacuum. He has already added so much to our family that I cannot imagine life without him any more.

We have adjusted to his little doggy ways and the occasional deep baritone bark of warning;- woof, it’s a squirrel, woof, it’s a human pedestrian, woof, it’s someone at the door. There’s quite a variety but we know them all. It is because we know them all, including the puppy whimpers of bad dreams and chasing deamons full speed whilst lying sideways on the floor, that I am surprised by an entirely new kerfuffle of a noise. I run to investigate the fearing the worst. I find the worst, my son wrapped around the neck of the hound that sneezes.

Most peculiar.

Half gag half whimper.

“Iz o.k. mom! I fink Fatcher has allergies.”
“!”

Daily Constitutional[s]

We walk as a family, together with our dog, Thatcher. We meet and greet neighbours, old ones and new unfamiliar ones. People are friendly and make complimentary remarks about our puppy.

My children offer pertinent pieces of information in return:- that he has fur, even between his toes, that the end of his tail looks like a teasel, that his poop is bigger than cat poop because he is much bigger than most cats, that the tough pads on his feet mean that he doesn’t need to wear shoes, that he smells really bad, but not as bad as the first day he arrived.

Each little nugget of information is of equal worth.

People seem both amused and bemused in return.




By the time we dawdle back home, these cumulative exchanges appear to have percolated their psyche.

“Mom?”
“Yes dear?”
“I like Fatcher.”
“Oh good. I’m glad you told me that dear.”
“Yes……......now we have a dog…….….people think we are more entertainment value.”
“?”

What’s in a name?

A very long time ago I gave my little brother a cheap and nasty teddy bear. It was very small and constructed in what I can only describe as squares and rectangles.

It might have just passed muster if it had been biscuit coloured but unfortunately it was a pure shade of dun. Fortunately I gave it with love and from the very few pennies in my possession. For some unaccountable reason, he and the bear bonded. He being a youthful kind of a little brother, he concocted a lengthy, convoluted name for a bear no larger than his pudgy little hand. Jumbo Jet Teabags, as he was affectionately known for short, and my brother, were quite inseparable for many a long year. Jumbo Jet Teabags full name, is lost on my weakened memory card, but I believe he had a great number of them, one for each letter of the alphabet.

Currently we own, or rather, we adopted as family members, two cats named Unis and Rascal. They are both boys. They are both brothers. These were the only two names that my children could agree upon. Any pet I have ever owned has always been called either Fred or George. I’m not good at names. I’m great at faces.

I think these things as I sit on the floor with the experiment. The experiment is hairy rather than furry. The colour of champagne, smallish and exuberant. Like most new-borns, he is currently nameless, but responds well to everything from ‘pot of tea?’ to ‘puppy.’

The naming ceremony shall commence shortly.

I hereby declare that I am going to fudge the results. We do have a short list but if you think for one moment that I am going to be running around the neighbourhood park calling Geckcelia / Daddidiogasaurus / Minch Pin/Curly / Darky/ Fluffy Queen / Gorgeous One / Licky /Surprise /Death Wish the First/Killer Junior / Inappropriate Species, then you’ve got another thing coming my fine friend. As head poop collector, feeder, companion and mistress, that hound shall henceforward be named George. And that’s final.

Addendum.

I lied. Puppy will be called Thatcher. I bet you a farthing that you cannot guess why?

Here are a couple of unhelpful hints, “here” and “here.”



Now other people are also in need of such companions such as "Michelle's" family over at "Full Soul Ahead," so you may wish to pop on over and see if you might be able to "help out" with her post called "A Service Dog For Riley."