Back before I got knocked up, I used to boast to Dave on a regular basis that I was actually looking forward to the challenge of childbirth because I was confident that I could do it all without drugs. I do have an extremely high pain tolerance and I can’t remember the last time I shed a tear as a result of physical pain; it’s the kind of pointless promise I made to myself more than 20 years ago. Show me a commercial that features a close-up shot of the Snuggle bear hugging on fresh white linens and I might totally lose it, but physical pain is something I have always had this personal pride issue with. And its not that I haven’t had ample opportunity—I am clumsy, and I fall down a lot, and when I fall down, I fall down HARD. I can’t help it; I was just born overly dramatic. Helpful side note: While it isn’t particularly pleasant to ride the Metro home from work with bleeding palms and knees, it does guarantee you a seat to yourself during rush hour.
Back then, I figured when I got pregnant I would spend a lot of my time panicking about the impending birth and the pain and the blood and the ugly backless hospital gown and whether Dave would pass out and hit his head and the baby and I would have to visit him in the Intensive Care Unit afterwards. But the reality is that there is so much more to this whole pregnancy and bringing a baby home process than I ever could have possibly imagined. Yes, I plan to be educated enough to make good, healthy choices about the birth, but I just don’t have time to sit around and work myself into a frenzy about what it will feel like and how bad it might be and I’ve decided to let Dave worry about whether he will stand on the business end of things during the delivery.
Which is a relief, because I have MUCH BIGGER THINGS to worry about these days.
Like the dog and the cat. Who both spend 90 percent of their days lounging on or beneath the full-sized bed in the guest room that will be removed in approximately two weeks to make room for the crib and the rest of the baby stuff that we’ve already started to accumulate. And every time I start to think about it, I feel horrible.
When we adopted Hambone in March of 2004, he was a sight. At the shelter, it took about 15 minutes for a volunteer to coax him out of his shared run, but we were able to take him on a short walk. It was then that he demonstrated his unique talent of pooping with one leg up. At first, Dave and I were a bit put off by it—weirded out really—but it turns out that a dog who is actually pooping when it just looks like he’s going number one has been a blessing in disguise for Dave, who often avoids having to pick it up as a result. We now affectionately call it the Stealth Poop.
We were pretty sold on Hambone immediately as he fit all of my moronic requirements for the perfect dog (about 40 pounds, black and white, ears that stood up and drooped at the same time). But we couldn’t take him home with us for another week because the shelter had to do a home visit with us, and he was to be neutered that Tuesday. Then, in the middle of the week after he had gone in for his surgery, they called to tell us that the vet’s office had found out that he had mange, and a chipped front tooth, and that if we wanted to rescind our commitment and get our deposit back, they would understand. But we didn’t want to.
The next Saturday we picked up new our dog without quite knowing that we had also picked up a completely new lifestyle. To this day, we don’t know if Hambone was abused or just undersocialized, but he was exhaustingly frustrating at first. For starters, we had to take him for mange treatments once a week for nine weeks, and those treatments involved having him dipped in a strong, poisonous insecticide that would kill the mites that were making the fur fall out all over his body. But the insecticide had terrible side effects. He couldn’t walk straight, he had no appetite, and he just laid around the house like perhaps he was a 14-year-old dog instead of the one year old we had been assured he was.
After the mange cleared up, we went through other difficulties. He was very submissive, and frightened of everything, and sometimes just standing too close to him caused him to pee in submission to us. Sometimes he wouldn’t go outside for hours, and when we would try to tug a little on his collar, he would urinate all over the couch. He did this repeatedly for weeks, I think more than 10 times, and even though it was frustrating, we tried to learn from our mistakes and be gentle with him; we always tried to figure out exactly what had scared him—our tone of voice? Our posture? Touching him with three fingers this time instead of two? It was an exasperating process, but with much patience, the peeing stopped and we were able to purchase a new couch without worrying about him soaking it in liquid fear.
Then, one morning that summer, just when things were starting to improve a bit, Dave accidentally fell down the stairs on his way to take Hambone outside. And for more than a year afterwards, Hambone refused to go on walks with Dave or even be let outside by him. If Dave even touched his leash, he would panic and head for the couch where he wouldn’t budge. He became my sole responsibility, and that was hard for me because it was so much work, but it was harder for Dave because his feelings were so hurt by Hambone’s rejection. This was certainly not what he expected owning a dog would be like.
We thought an obedience class might give him more confidence, especially around Dave, so we signed him up for a 10-week clicker training course, which is supposed to promote good behavior through positive reinforcement and treats. But the clicker sound scared him, and the exercises that we practiced in class that required the instructor to hold him on the leash at one end of the classroom while I stood at the other end signaling for him to sit completely freaked him out and he would strain against the leash toward me with a tortured, panicked look in his eyes. At home, he did learn to sit and lie down and he eventually learned to shake hands, but participating in the class was so depressing. It was hard to take him home at night and to try to accept that he was never going to be a “normal” dog like everyone else had. We thought we were resigned to walking on eggshells around him at all times, and it was so discouraging, so draining. But we never stopped hoping he would improve. We never gave up.
Something changed about four or five months ago though, and now, more than two years into this situation, we are finally dealing with an entirely different dog—one that trusts us. The one we come home to now wags his tail and whines in excitement when he sees us, and jumps up to say hi when we walk through the door. He snuggles up to us on the couch and obeys commands with confidence and could care less who is walking him as long as he gets to go. Every Saturday morning he accompanies Dave on a Starbucks run and then to the dog park for an hour or so, and I don’t even have to get out of bed anymore to trick him into getting into the car without me. He loves to play catch with tennis balls and he eats every meal on schedule and in its entirety and he loves to be chased around the house by Dave and bark uncontrollably. He doesn’t want to sleep in the bed with us and he never wanders from the backyard and he can catch treats no matter how high you toss them into the air. He is essentially the perfect dog. Finally.
I guess I’m just completely terrified that he’s going to revert back to the old Hambone if we upset the balance and routine that we’ve worked so hard to establish in our home. I know in my heart that the baby comes first and will always come first and I’m not going to ever dispute that. The mattresses have to go because the baby needs a place to sleep. And because the stuffed animals are multiplying at an alarming rate already.
It sounds so ridiculous… I want to say that it’s just a DOG and it’s just a MATTRESS, for Pete’s sake, but it is so much harder than I thought it would be to start kind of “demoting” him in the family ranks, especially after all we’ve been through.
Just tell me it gets easier. Did your pets accept the kids and all the changes they brought with them? I need reassurance. Or chocolate. Or both. Does anyone have both?
Edited to add world's cutest photo of terrible pregnancy problem.
