The dog is doing my head in.

No longer happy with being a dick he is now aiming for full-on twat!

At nine months he is now full of teenage angst. Having gone through the biting stage, briefly pausing for the humping stage, we are now in the ‘your-not-the-boss-of-me-stage.

This mostly involves forgetting every bit of training he has ever learnt, barking to get his own way, destroying every toy, sock, hairband or cushion he comes into contact with and doing wild and furious zoomies every time someone says NO!

We have two fifty minute walks a day, at a gentle pace with lots of sniffing. We have nice, nauseatingly smelly things to chew on and brain games to keep him occupied. His dinner is scrunched up in little balls of paper and then hidden in a box for him to destroy (taking bloody hours to prepare I might add.) We play games and chuck the ball.

He is still a twat.

We have had to start using the ‘C’ word.

No, not that one. C-R-A-T-E!

Just hearing the word sends him into a frenzy of bitey zoomies around the room. When I say zoomies I want you to imagine a small, solid, furious dog, leaping from sofa to sofa, flying across the room at, to be fair, fairly impressive lengths, with such force that the sofa is literally knocked off its feet.

He is impossible to stop. Out of control. The only thing is to ‘steer’ him to the back door and out into the garden, shutting the door behind him for a moments peace.

Even finally getting him into the C-R-A-T-E offers little respite.

Despite his teenage stroppiness, Bertie loves his crate. For a dog who struggles to regulate his mood swings, time-out in his crate gives him space to decompress. It also gives me space away from him.

A woman of routine, we have set times where he is in his crate so I can get on with some writing or, I don’t know, sit for 5 seconds without a dog leaping on me.

This works well.

Well, it did.

Now, once I’ve battled him into you-know-where, luring him with such delights as a furry rabbit ear or a dried chicken foot, he will settle down for a nap for a couple of hours. But only if I leave the room.

This precious little prince is quite happy to sleep for two hours if I’m not there, but god forbid I actually sit on my own sofa (now standing upright with all its cushions in place). If he catches me sitting on the sofa his whines soon become howls and I still get no peace.

Banished to my office or bedroom in the middle of the day, I’d like to think that he is merely trying to support my creative endeavours.

‘Stop watching Scandal and go do some writing,’ he howls.

But honestly I think he’s just being a twat.

We all have that image, don’t we, of life with a dog.

Lazy afternoons curled up on the sofa together. Autumn walks to the pub, where the dog lies peacefully at your feet.  Playing fetch with a stick in the fields. Him actually coming back when you call.  Not eating an entire ball of wool, then standing on the dining table to puke it back up. Taking more than 7 minutes to destroy the eye-wateringly- expensive dog toy that is supposed to be indestructible!

Such dreams!

And I know this too will pass.

I just never imagined I would long for the days when the dog was just being a dick.

We are hanging on in there. Only another year to go. 18 months at the most.

Surely?

Wish me luck!

***And on a serious note, this stage of puppyhood, 9-18 months – is when most dogs get surrendered to animal rescue charities. So, if you are struggling at this stage know that you are not alone. Contact your local dog charity or dog trainer for support and advice. They do get through this stage eventually.

Side note; since writing this Bertie the Beast grabbed a houseplant from its pot and proceeded to shake all the compost over the sofa. Juat to make sure it was really dead he shot upstairs and repeated to shake the plant to death in my bed.

i am wondering if maybe i could sleep in the C-R-A-T-E

In these difficult times this blog is always free to read but, if you feel able to buy me a coffee it would be greatly appreciated – thank you x