I feel bad because the other day I wrote a post about how frustrated I had become with Annie.
On Saturday she had wandered two miles away into roadkill country. She had chewed the ends off one of my rockers and had gnawed through the lattice of my expensive deck davenport. It did not help my mood that I also cleaned up a month's worth of her poop from the front lawn.
She's a big girl.
And I often forget that at just a year old, she is a mere pup.
But yesterday morning I did something rare for me. I deleted that post.
I woke up feeling horrible. It was like I was complaining about an infant cutting teeth or not coming out of the womb potty trained. I suppose her size confuses me and I tend to expect way too much from her. And that is not fair.
Fortunately, Annie doesn't pay me and my moodiness any mind. Later, when I got over my little problem, Annie and I had a swell time together. Though she still slurps turkey doo like little Tootsie Rolls treasures, I've learned to chill.
"No licking me," I insist.
Still, I marvel on our hikes how she has become proficient in mole hunting. And I am thrilled at her willingness to chase a Kong and tennis ball for almost as long as I can throw one. Her favorite toy is a squeaky stuffed animal. She will not stop until the toy is gutted and the noise is shushed. It is her mission. But know this: Annie is a thief. My husband will not leave the door to his pick-up truck open since he became wise to her ways of helping herself to his tools. She is nosy, too. Anything carried in arms is subject to her approval. She insists on jumping up and smelling, biting, investigating. And fair warning: Keep your mouth closed. She likes to french kiss. She is a goober.
But she is my goober and after a long day at work there is nothing better than to come home, open the car door, and receive a hug by the dog I call Happiness.
