We’ve named him Thatcher

My wife decided our family was not yet complete. As children are now physically out of the equation, she decided she wanted a dog. I simply decided I wanted a happy life, so I attempted to placate my wife. To delay, I told her to wait for the end of the school year.

My wife took this for a yes.

Instead of a seven-month delay, less than three weeks later my wife drug Tom, Huck and Becky to the pet store. There, a litter of Weimaraner/Poodle puppies were waiting to be adopted. The largest of which was a sweet, dopey, gentle male.

Using psychological techniques taught to S.W.A.T. Units during hostage negotiations, my wife got me to the pet store later that day. She compared this puppy to the dog which made me a “dog person.” She told me how well-behaved, and well-trained this dog would be, in comparison to the 8-year-old we brought home when we were first married. She told me to look at Tom, Huck and Becky, and how much they wanted a pet of their own. I left the safety of those hostage seven months and was immediately arrested.

This time it isn’t an alias

If you weren’t aware, all the names on this blog are made up to protect the innocent. Any layer of obfuscation I can muster to protect my children. Thatcher’s name is actually Thatcher.
The night before picking him up my wife and I ran through names. I thought Huck would be a perfect name for him. It was too close to one of our children’s actual names to work. So we thought Thatcher was “dog name” enough to give him.

15-yard penalty, roughing the baby

On the first morning, we had him I realized having a puppy at home was going to present some…challenges.

I was prepping for the day with Becky and Thatcher downstairs (That’s going to be a fun clause to include in future updates). Becky rounded the corner to the kitchen. Thatcher, who was right by my side across the kitchen from Becky thought it was time to play. He took three bounds and traversed the room. It was as soon as the second leap happened I knew he wasn’t going to stop. He speared Becky in a way that Coach Ditka would have been proud of.

Becky was none too pleased.

Less than an hour later, Thatcher was being drug across the family room by one of his ears. Becky plays dirty.

The inseparable Becky n’Thatcher

(Told you I’d use it again)

Since that day the two youngest in the family have been inseparable.

On Becky’s side, it’s a dog. She loves dogs. She’ll waddle all around the neighborhood to get to any dog she sees. It doesn’t matter if it’s five times her size, she wants to give the “woo woof” a pet.

Why Thatcher puts up with Becky was a matter of mystery to me for a week or so. Becky is constantly in his bed. Bugging him while he’s sleeping by dropping a tennis ball on his head (She wants him to play fetch with her in the worst way). She all but piledrives him as he’s laying on the ground. She splashes his water bowl all over the kitchen. And he gets smacked for stealing all her toys, which in his defense, could very well be dog toys.

However, Becky is a baby. When she carries around animal crackers, she’s at puppy height. When she eats, she makes a mess. And that’s just the food Thatch is able to scavenge. It doesn’t tell the story of the food Becky just hands to the dog, because “woo woof.”

Becoming the responsible one

Huck is our handful. He’s a middle child through and through. He has a good and big heart, but he also has a VIP seat on the struggle-bus.

Except with this dog.

Huck is the first to volunteer to help out. Every morning Huck is the first one up. And so every morning, he helps me by feeding the dog. And, as irresponsible as it is to rely on a three-year-old to take the dog out, Huck immediately hops up, grabs the leash, and lets Thatcher out. Although, like a good “big brother” he makes up any excuse he can to get that dog a treat. “He didn’t poop, but he did pee a lot. Can I give him a whole treat?”

Another family member. Another adventure.

I hope our family is 100% complete now. I’m not sure we can fit much more fun under one woof…and so many bodily functions. But I guess we’ll talk about the troubles and travails of doggo’s bowels on another post.