I had this idea that Nick and I would come together to meet all of Jolie’s physical and psychological needs, providing unique support that was also interchangeable, as necessary.
Obviously, I don’t know us at all.
It was only a few days before Nick heard me telling Jolie that I love her. “Nick, maybe not so much,” I cooed. “But I do.”
Don’t feel bad for him–he is a champion at retaliating in kind. We are obsessed with how the dog sees us (he’s the one who picks her up when she pretends to be too tired to walk; I’m the one who always sticks her in her crate at night), and we are trying very hard to work on impression management. “You put her in the carry-bag,” shot out of the side of Nick’s mouth on our walk today, when the dog was obviously worn out. “She already thinks that I’m a pushover.”
For better or worse, she has clearly spent some of her own time figuring out who we are. Apparently, I am good for: walking, comforting, and food/water. Nick is responsible for play, and for emergency trips outside.
Nick is not pleased.
Okay; actually, I get most of his complaint. The thing is that, over the past three weeks, Jolie has done most of her walking with me. And now she refuses to walk without me.
The fact that Nick has a four-day weekend right when my ankle went all crazy and could be doing her long walks by himself was foremost in my mind yesterday when the phone rang. “She’s just sitting here,” he said. “I have the ball. We’re on the island. I’m doing everything right, but she’s refusing to move.” He confessed later (after I hobbled out to meet them) that she kept perking up whenever brunette women walked by alone.
On walks together, she jumps at him when she wants to play. She jumps at me when she wants a sip of water. It never fails.
Even worse, I’ve been training her not to race into the street by herself. She is not allowed to leave a curb unless I am there. And, apparently, Nick does not count. When the two of them gallop ahead, she will suddenly skid to a stop and sit at any natural barrier that resembles a curb. She will swivel her head to see me limping along behind. “Go! Let’s go! Good girl; go ahead!” I call, waving like a maniac. But she will not budge until I catch up.
Oops.
Now, I would happily trade that for Nick’s uncanny ability to know when she needs to go out–she is essentially housetrained (at three months old!) because he is so good at understanding what she wants. I just know she will backslide when he goes back to work, and it kills me.
However. I have one definite perk: the comforting thing. Nick can convince her to sleep, but I’m the one she wants when she’s sleepy…or scared. Up until yesterday, we had three solid weeks of 80-degree sunshine–no cold, no rain. It was really bizarre. And most of yesterday was lovely, too, except that the summer thunderstorm season has apparently finally arrived, because the clouds rolled in as we were coming back from our long walk.
“Some dogs are afraid of thunder,” I mentioned, if only because Jolie was fast asleep during her very first storm and having no problems whatsoever.
Fifteen minutes later, I was unloading the dishwasher when a huge crash of thunder hit. “It’s okay!” I heard Nick call from the living room, but by then the puppy was already in the kitchen with me–hiding under the dishwasher door. When I came back into the living room, Nick was cradling her on the floor, and I sat down next to them.
Mysteriously, Jolie oozed into my lap, over the course of two minutes or so. “You stole my puppy!” he pouted.
He may be right. We are both campaigning for her love, and we’re not pulling any punches. I have no idea how to explain her to the dog-walker we will have to hire when I am gone in June…or what she will do when she is afraid. Or thirsty.
And the most upsetting conclusion I can come to is that, during my absence, she will learn to do without me.