It was all fun and games at first, wasn’t it, Franny? The Friday night car ride, during which you got to sit on your mom’s lap, with both parents periodically reaching over to pat your fluffy head. Your convenient inability to offer to take over one of the legs of the drive. The 1:30 a.m. arrival in Vermont, where you were immediately deposited on your grandparents’ bed, to more petting and kisses, your soft locks no worse for the wear after eight hours in stop-and-go traffic, unlike your mother, who surely sprouted several gray hairs during the ordeal.
Things continued to go swimmingly on Saturday, didn’t they? You either didn’t realize or weren’t disturbed to discover The Big Dog was no longer in attendance (duh, you killed him, cupcake), and happily curled up on his bed, which grandpa is currently having preserved for his Toby Shrine (surprising no one, Toby suddenly, post-humously beats Mother Theresa.)
Still, the cloud of death cast no shadow over your little, adorable life. It was fun fun fun, 24/7. You made multiple attempts, some successful, to eat food that was not your own. You enjoyed some lazy naps in front of the fire. You basked in the the attention of six grown adults, reduced to cooing messes in the face of your cuteness.
And then there was the Romping. No doubt about it, you looked adorable out in the snow. You sprinted and pranced and hopped like a baby bunny through the looming white banks – on the golf course, in the back yard, lining Windtree Road.
You began to resemble a cute, fluffy coke addict. And we loved you all the more for it.
For the most part, you did a wonderful job off the leash. Until you embarked on a stealth mission for which you had not been dispatched: No Twig Left Behind!
Your objective applied to smaller sticks, too.
Still, you seemed happy, kind of like Mommy after a few tequila shots. You were having a blast! You were the life of the party! No need to slow down!
Until Monday morning rolled around. Suddenly, it was back to reality. There were only two people to fawn over you now. There was only one dog’s food to eat. And those twigs? They didn’t sit so well after breakfast, did they?
So now you sit – or, technically, lie – washed up on Dad’s snowpants, down for the count, occasionally whimpering or moving your little legs through some Franny-sized nightmare. We’re not stupid enough to think you’ve learned your lesson – surely there are more twigs in your future – but we’re still trying to help you through this, keeping your water bowl full, laying down a fleece blanket for you to throw your pity party on.
We’ll admit, some parts of doggy-parenting have been tough: the 3 a.m. wake-ups, the feeding dilemmas. But dealing with a puppy hangover? Please, bitches. I got this.