Because Being A Daddy Is Not A Job

[NOTE: I wrote this as a "flash" piece; it took ten minutes from start to finish. It's a trick I'm pulling to keep myself sharp while I wait to edit my novel. I know the site looks plain, and it'll look that way for a while. Content over style, I think. Also, I know a lot of this is repeated from the previous post, but there's some new stuff here, too.]

We have a dog.

We’ve had lots of dogs in the past, of course. There was Becker, who went to another home after he started growling at Ema. There was Sophie, the last in a long line of dachshunds. She smelled like dried blood and her tail was bony. She hated me.

But we were currently dog-free, until last weekend. This worked well for us: Angie’s pregnant, and I know I’ll be pulling all-nighters and cleaning extraordinary amounts of poop come July 9th. I’m mentally prepared for that. I wasn’t prepared for a new puppy, however.

Donna, my mother-in-law, changed all that. She called us from Murfreesboro, Arkansas, to tell us a woman was selling chiweenie puppies. “Do y’all want one?”

Angie has a fascination with chiweenies. I’m interested in any breed that won’t get over ten pounds and has a weird hybrid name. (NOTE: another acceptable breed name is “chihuachshund,” which sounds more like a Nazi torture device.) And free puppies, while never truly free, are hard to turn down. We said yes because we’re idiots who love the challenge of making a dog go potty outdoors. We’ve never succeeded in this endeavor, mind you, but we’re still up to the challenge.

This dog came into our house two Sundays ago. She was five-and-a-half weeks old, sweet and immediately my dog. She curled up on my shoulder, farted and fell asleep.

Every puppy owner here knows that puppybreath is one of the sweetest aromas on Earth. They really should bottle it and use it in Lysol. I found out that the reason puppy breath is so nice is that, all the foul stuff migrates to the other end. A puppy fart would peel Teflon from a frying pan. That the dog was inches from my face when she decided it was time to go didn’t make it any better.

She’s current on shots, she loves to play-bit (a little too much at times), and we finally decided on a name.

Tater Tot. Tater for short.

Tater is current on her vaccines, and she’s eating well. We were worried, considering our last puppy died of parvo after she’d received her first shots (she must have gotten it in the shelter, before she was vaccinated). I’d bleached the yard and scrubbed the floors, but it’s a worry.

There’s a symmetry to Tater being in our house. Millie, our last puppy, died around the time Angie got pregant with Abby. We then thought we’d lost Abby. The entire month seemed to go to pot. But Tater’s here, she’s healthy and Abby is growing according to schedule. I don’t want to jinx it, but we’re riding a high of baby health right now. Maybe it’s a good omen.

So, good job Tater. Now stop biting my neck right after you fart.

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