The dog is doing my head in.

I should change the title of the whole blog to ‘The Dog is doing my head in,’ think of the precious seconds I could save typing it out each week.

We’re at the thieving little shite stage, with an extra helping of, ‘Why yes I would love to chew a hole in every dog bed/ cushion / carelessly discarded cardigan.’ Oh, and let’s not forget the ‘I need your arm in my mouth at all times’, phase.

‘Get a puppy,’ I said, ‘it’ll be fun.’

My health has taken its normal dramatic winter downturn. Like a child throwing a tantrum, my body randomly decides that’s enough standing for today – at 8.30 am. Or enough using those hands, missy – put that knitting down and sit really still for two hours until the pain passes. Or how about a little brain-fog, never mind writing, try remembering where you put your glasses or your house keys (two weeks later I found them just behind the pot where I always leave them, despite looking there seven thousand times.

All of this and a mad boisterous puppy as well!

Some days he is 100% being a dick – eating Kale direct from the raised beds as he eyeballs me, daring me to stand up and get him. But some days, it’s not just him, it’s me.

Some days my patience and tolerance for mad dog behaviour is all spent. Some days it’s hard to remain calm and consistent in the face of a beautiful, actually all things considered, pretty amazing puppy, being an absolute psycho

A quick glance at a Facebook group for Basset Hound Owners tells me I’m not alone. (You’re not meant to say owners but I’m not his mum – he’s a dog. But I don’t know what else to say, companions?) The Basset Dog guardians/owners/willing slaves are supportively explaining to newbies that Bassets are rarely housetrained under 18 months (Bertie is.) And may never walk properly on a lead (Bertie can, sort-of-ish.) Bassets are all terrible thieves and chewers, their bitey stage can last until they are young adults, and despite their size, zoomies are one of their favourite past-times until they die.

As dogs go, they are slow to mature and are particularly stubborn and determined, making them great if they’re rescuing you from a well, but not so great if they’re after eating your dirty knickers.

And it’s hard, in the middle of it all, to see that Bertie is just being a dog. That yes, he needs boundaries and rules, and it is not acceptable in polite society to walk around with someone else’s pants in your mouth, but the answer is not always that the dog is being a dick. Sometimes the answer is that I am just being a human.

Some days I don’t feel well and what was ‘just the dog’ yesterday, is head-exploding-last-straw-end-of-my-tether-bloody-dog-end-of-the-world today. And that has to be ok too.

Like any new relationship Bertie and I are working out our boundaries, feeling our way towards what we can both live with, and then me doing exactly what he wants.

Some days he is an utter dick, but some days I suspect he would say the same of me.

Some days…  Hold on, the little shite has just jumped up on my desk and eaten thirty quid’s worth of bloody stamps. Bloody dog! Oh my god, now he is puking them back up onto my clean pile of underwear. Argh! And now he is eating my knickers again! Oh my god! Stop it! Oh god! Now there’s sick all over the wall.  Don’t shake it! Bloody hell! Leave it. Leave it! Leave..!

I take it all back.

This bloody dog is an absolute dick!

The dog is doing my head in!