Puppy Peril - The Honeymoon is O-V-E-R

I think Peanut was an interior designer in her former life because during her short time here, she has already rearranged my house to showcase all of her favorite toys: bones, shoes, balls and stuffed animals. Dirt-smeared "outside" toys have made their way inside and ended up as accessories to my good furniture. Either that, or Peanut makes herself the accessory. Now that's a statement.

We take Peanut for long, exhausting walks teaching her to use other people's yards as her bathroom only to have her mock us by returning home and heading straight outside to pee, pockmarking our once beautiful, green yard with yellow F.U.'s.

We can't swim anymore in our pool because Peanut doesn't think it's safe and she won't stop barking or poking at your head until you agree with her.

We, particularly me, can't walk anywhere in the house alone; can't take a pee, do laundry, walk from the refrigerator to the stove, anything, without the tumor that is Peanut attaching itself to our legs.

We cannot sit in peace for more than a few seconds without having a slobbery ball tossed in our laps, over and over, until we give in or get up to take a shower, whichever comes first.

But the real kicker, the one that made me think, "why did I agree to get a puppy?" was the incident this morning. The one where my kids were late for camp, my husband was somewhere else, and I was on my knees, scrubbing a carpet covered in blood.

Minutes before, I was feeling good. It was 8am and I had returned from a long, vigorous walk with the dogs. Entering the house, Peanut, was her usual chocolate whirling dervish, running from room to room, picking up items and dropping them upon seeing another she fancied. I checked on the kids and as I retraced my steps into the hallway, I saw a flash of red. Then another. And another. A helter skelter of red. Up the stairs, in the bedrooms, in the bathrooms, on the beds, down the stairs, on the floor. My house looked like an opening scene of CSI.

Investigating the source, I found Peanut's toenail scraped down to the blood vessel and as I held it blood gushed out with every pump of her frantic, little, puppy heart. I cleaned and wrapped her paw and surveyed the damage, I was overwhelmed by the state of my I-just-had-it-professionally-cleaned carpet. I cannot treat you to a picture because I-was-too-busy-screaming-and-waking-the-neighbors-and-waiting-for-the-cops-to-come-and-for-them-to- torture-me-until-I-confessed-and-led-them-to-the-location-of-the-dead-body to get my camera.

Once calm, I couldn't figure out where to begin cleaning the mess. Something Anne Lamott once wrote came to mind. In her first book, she recounted her father telling her brother how to distill a huge school project he'd left until the last minute into manageable chunks. He told his son to take it "bird by bird." (As I recall, the project was researching various bird species). So with my rags and carpet cleaner, I got down on my knees and took it bird by bird, stain by stain, until one hour later I'd made it through a few hundred crimson birds.

After an emergency trip to the vet (playing never-ending fetch in the driveway sanded Peanut's nails down to the quick) and the pet store to buy doggie shoe boots, I returned home to resume normalcy and try to salvage what was left of my day before picking up the kids. Peanut resumed following me, dropping balls at my feet, trying to entice me into a slobbery game of fetch. I looked down to tell her no and noticed wherever Peanut went, a staccato trail of blood followed.

Another hour later, hungry, knees aching, my "me" time had vanished behind a damp, veil of bloody rags.

I now sit at my desk, precious Peanut under foot, hoping to have a peaceful remainder of my day night. All thoughts of writing, errands, and long-awaited manicures firmly shoe-booted from my head.

There's always tomorrow... I mean, who can resist this face...