Brooke Shields and me...we're like *this*

I'm so glad he loves me. But I don't want my ability to walk to my futon and eat dinner to be impeded upon by something that eats their own poop.
On Monday I admitted to myself, to Em, and to any of my neighbors who were listening through our thin, suburban apartment walls that I'm currently suffering from Postpartum Dogpression. I'm talking heaving sobs, snot, falling to my knees and writhing in agony. When Em and I decided to acquire Seamus...which, by the way, how do you say that you "got" a dog while openly admitting that it was more than just a street-corner pickup? Do you say you purchased them? That explains the seriousness of the situation, I guess, but it feels a Nevertheless, Seamus lives with us now. And when we decided to add him to our living space, I was mostly confident that I could handle things. I did what all good parents-of-humans do...I read the books, consulted friends, talked to the vet. I felt adequately prepared for this. But I'm not and I wasn't. This shit is HARD.

Seamus is beyond annoying. Right now, and for the past few weeks, he's been barking as a primary and almost-exclusive form of communication. And when he's not barking, he's whining. Seriously, WHINING. He can reach decibels that should be outlawed (maybe they are?). I can't walk from one room to another without having my toes nibbled on, my pants tugged, and my ability to walk inhibited by a pug who only seems to run in the shape of a figure eight. I can't sit on my futon without him harassing me by biting my knees, lunging after my toes, hopping, jumping and getting into things he shouldn't get into. He's got a penchant for any form of paper available to him, loves stuffed toy fluff, finds wood to be more delicious than even his own dog food and gets so excited about being on the bed that he's peed on it almost every single time we've put him up there. There are days when I feel like the breeders gave us some sort of inbred doggie defect and that he'll never be smart, good, well-behaved or ready for company.

I'm not going to throw Seamus out the window, though I feel like doing it sometimes. I resent Em and any ability she might have to communicate with him. Simultaneously, I'm irritated with just about every way she speaks to, scolds and reprimands him. Too loud, too angry, too soft, too nothingiseverrightIneedtobelockedupimmediately. Cesar, the Dog Whisperer, used to be this mythical, magical and completely alluring canine genius. Now I resent him more than words can express. I sit on my futon and squish his magical little head between my fingers every time his show appears on the television.

Coincidentally, I am not seeking any sort of resolution to these "problems" that plague me. I know that I will most likely grow to love Seamus, and I do love him now...kind of. It is wildly imperfect and inconsistent. So I'm here to tell you people that postpartum dogpression is real, it hurts, but it's ok. I'm optimistic that someday, before the day that I have to liquor up just to take him on a walk, that Seamus will stop being such an asshole. But you have to feel the feelings people. Kumbaya.

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All content © Meaghan O'Malley, 2009-2012. Header image by Rebekka Seale.