Total pages in book: 33
Estimated words: 30528 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 153(@200wpm)___ 122(@250wpm)___ 102(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 30528 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 153(@200wpm)___ 122(@250wpm)___ 102(@300wpm)
I’m a sucker. I know it. And now, so does he.
After two hours, I’ve bought a dog crate online and paid for one-hour delivery, splurged on a collection of squeaky toys shaped like junk food, and downloaded three different e-books on puppies. According to the internet, I am doing everything both right and wrong. One source says to never let your dog sleep on your bed; another claims co-sleeping is essential for bonding. A third simply says “good luck, rookie” and leaves it at that.
I try to get ahead of disaster by making a “puppy zone” in the living room, barricading it with a couple of chairs and my laundry basket. Buster jumps the line in under three seconds, then sits on the other side, tail wagging, like he’s daring me to try again.
I sigh and collapse onto the floor, cross-legged, while he circles my feet and then, with a grand flourish, flops his head into my lap.
“You’re pretty cute,” I moan, scratching behind his ears. “I just hope we both survive the experience.”
Buster yawns, unconcerned, and curls up in my lap. Before long, he’s sound asleep and snoring adorably with his little paws wrapped tight around my heart.
I’m still sitting there, hypnotized by the world’s cutest beagle snores, when my phone buzzes with a delivery alert. Shit. The crate and emergency puppy supplies. The guy from Discount Mart knocks a second later, grunting as he deposits a suspiciously flat box that screams “assembly required” in my hallway.
Buster wakes up just enough to watch me struggle. I haul the crate to my bedroom, rip open the box, and am instantly confronted by an IKEA-style battlefield of metal and plastic zip ties. The instructions are, I swear, written in ancient runes. I bite my lip, mutter curses that would make a sailor blush, and nearly lose my mind trying to understand the gibberish.
It’s touch-and-go for a while, but I somehow get it put together. Then I wedge it right next to my bed, so Buster won’t be alone.
He sniffs the crate, circles it, and then climbs into my bed and lies down right on my pillow, as if to say, “Nice try, human, but I’ve got your number.”
I try to be firm. I lift him gently, set him in the crate, and give him the pizza-shaped chew toy for comfort.
He stares at me, unblinking, then lets out a whimper so soul-shredding that I almost scoop him up right then and there.
“Don’t give in,” I whisper to myself. “You’re the boss here. You can do this.”
Buster whimpers again, louder this time. His entire face crumples, and the effect is devastating.
I pace the room, tablet in hand, scrolling through endless forums that assure me he’ll adapt quickly if I’m strong.
By eleven pm, the crying has escalated to full-throttle beagle baying, which is less “adorable whimper” and more “demonic foghorn.” Oh boy. Thank goodness tonight is one of Hunter’s twenty-four-hour shifts, so at least he isn’t home to hear Buster’s cries. Yes, I know his schedule. And yes, I know what that says about me.
I sit beside the crate, stroking his head through the slats and murmuring nonsense—“It’s okay, baby. You’re not alone. It’s just for tonight. I love you already. Don’t hate me”—until I realize I’m crying, too. Great. Now we’re two helpless wrecks, sobbing in stereo.
The books say to ignore the crying. The books have clearly never met Buster. After another half hour, I can’t take it anymore. I open the crate and reach in for my little buddy.
“Just for tonight,” I whisper, and fold him into my arms.
Tomorrow, I’ll be strong. Tomorrow, I’ll read every book, enforce every boundary, and ace this whole pet-parent thing.
But tonight, we can be a little bit soft.
I carry Buster to bed, tuck him under the covers, and fall asleep to the steady sound of his snoring.
If this is what failure feels like, I’ll take it.
The next night, I’m determined to do this right.
Buster gets his dinner on time. We play a long, exhausting game of fetch-the-squeaker, and I walk him around the block twice to burn off any last molecules of energy. I even follow the “gentle transitions” protocol from the dog book, building positive crate associations by hiding treats inside and showering him with praise every time he steps in. I set the crate at the foot of my bed, tuck in the blanket with a little stuffed fox, and cue up some “Calm Dog Sleep” music on my phone.
It feels like overkill, but I’m committed. I am the alpha here. I’m in charge of this household, and tonight, Buster will sleep in his crate if it kills us both.
At first, he goes along with it. He curls up, ears flat, nose buried in the crook of his front paws. I tiptoe to the bathroom, brush my teeth, and come back to find him staring at me, wide-eyed but silent.