Little deer.

Little Harold.
Harold, 12 weeks old, at Reservoir Park.
The way Harry prances around on his clumsy, long legs with his ears pricked up like that, he looks more like a baby deer than a baby dog. Now that he has made himself at home, his new interests include pooping in dark corners, shredding newspapers and attacking Mule's tail (he likes to bite down and hang on for a ride.) When we catch him gnawing on a chair leg or eating Mule's food, we scold him with No's, and instead of apologetically slinking away like most dogs, he darts away to laugh and bounce around on the furniture, grinning like a dead pig in the sun. The "no" sound seems to only excite him. Oh, he thinks he's real cute.

But Harold is just a puppy, and to be honest, I had thought he'd be more of a handful. I've been sitting on crossed fingers, half expecting a feral, poop-splattered little hose hound, but for the most part, he is too busy being affectionate, sweet and calm. He sleeps through the night and is extraordinarily relaxed in the car. He is friendly and brave, and loves to be around people and other dogs. So far, I'm satisfied with his house training progress, and he has yet to destroy anything important.


Speak your mind.