My husband and I are on the cusp of being empty nesters. Our only daughter just graduated high school and will be attending university in the fall. I should be out celebrating my newfound independence, traveling, and kicking up my heels, right?
Wrong! I’m back at square one, from early morning feedings to potty training. Our newest family member is an Australian Labradoodle named Martini (Shaken, Not Stirred). My liver has snuggled up with a martini many times, but never one that melted my heart like this lovable ball of fur. So here I sit, 50 and fabulous…and the mother of a 12-week old.
Puppies are babies without the labour pain. I’m reminded how much teething sucks every time he makes a predatory lunge for my Achilles. Abby had sore gums when she was a baby but she never gnawed through a tendon. Martini and I are both cutting our teeth. I’m learning how to be a new mommy again.
Barbies and colouring books have been replaced with fetch and tug-of-war. Enticing Abby to recite the alphabet for jellybeans is the equivalent of roll over and shake a paw for a Snausage. But unlike my dog, I never wanted my daughter to turn tricks.
No matter how many times I left bowls of food and water on the floor for Abby, she never touched them. Martini took to it right away. He’s a smart dog. There’s no need to open the hanger and force food into his mouth with an airplane spoon.
While it would’ve been frowned upon to crate my daughter when I went shopping, Martini enjoys time in his metal man cave with a brunette named Harriet. She’s a fat-bottomed hippo who doesn’t mind getting humped every time she flops over. Mad props to the strip-o-potamus who rescued my leg!
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