Saturday, January 8, 2011

Don't Tell My Husband...

Since my husband spends all of his computer time on Facebook and YouTube, I feel confident my confession will remain a secret. I've never said these words aloud and probably never will however (my heart rate is increasing with the contemplation of even typing the words); I am ready to silently express my feelings. I love our dog.

Wow! I said it! A deep breath brings me a feeling of relief and release!

Let me introduce you to Liberty Rose aka Libby.

Libby is a two year old red tri Australian Shepherd who came to live with us when she was only 8 weeks old. The day we picked her from the breeder, I was fully prepared to become totally in love with the little fuzzball. And I was! Until we started the hour long journey home with her in the crate in the back of the SUV. She cried all the way home. The high pitched puppy scream that you can only understand if you've experienced it. The crying would have been manageable; we could have held her, cuddled away her anxiety but no. No, instead she decided to start pooping. I swear she pooped for 45 minutes of the 60 minute drive. She was no longer cuddle-able. The SUV stunk to high heaven, the dog is crying horribly, the kids are starting to get cranky and Mister... Mister was driving home with a look of adoration on his face. Despite the poop and the cries, he was in love. Me however, I was ready to commit puppycide.

From that first day, life with Libby only went downhill. Sir was only 18 months at the time; toddling around learning the ropes of life. Libby, being a rambunctious puppy who was half his size and a herder by nature TORMENTED him. She would nip at his heals, knock him over and pounce on him when he was down. I could go on and on about how bad things were. Life in the Casa was not nice. Everyone was miserable most of all me. I hated her. I pleaded with my husband to get rid of her. I begged, cried, offered all kinds of bribes. We even had the breeder come to the house to pick her up! (I stared through the window with a heavy heart as she drove away with a red fuzzball still at Mister's feet.)

Fast forward to today. Libby has grown to the wise old age of 2 and has made a 180 in her behavior and in my heart. Our "understanding" (as I would come to call it) started with her joining me in bed to watch TV at night. Who knew that she loved The History Channel as much as I did? When Mister would come in and question what was going on, I would answer that we had come to an "understanding". Our "understanding" has evolved to me taking her with me to run errands. I came out of the dog hating closet and now publicly pet and cuddle her. I have even come to enjoy her so much that I am weighing the idea of getting another dog. With all of that said, I still have not said that I love her. Because that would mean that my husband was right in keeping her. And if he was right... well, that would mean that I was... no... I might confess that I love Libby but you'll never hear me say I was wro....