So we got a dog. A puppy in fact. A rough collie puppy to be specific. And I knew the instant we brought him home at 9:17 p.m. on June 7th that our lives would never be the same.
In the weeks leading up to Cousteau’s arrival, I was frantically preparing myself by watching every Cesar Millan episode I could find, reading (and re-reading) The Bible (a.k.a., The Art of Raising a Puppy by the Monks of New Skete), and googling pictures and videos of collie puppies at different ages. (Pathetic, I know.) And really, this was a strange time for me, since I think I’m usually a fairly chill individual. Luckily, this onset of OCDness was firmly balanced by Wilf’s nonchalant and, at times, indifference to the whole process. His underlying outlook of, ‘don’t worry, we’ll figure it out when he’s here’, didn’t sit well with me on matters such as vaccinations, obedience, and exercise requirements. Why couldn’t we figure it out now? Why couldn’t we be prepared?