Still Making Mistakes

Like the pain of childbirth labor, I forget certain aspects of raising a puppy as soon as they’re over. Case in point: how obsessed we become with the new pup’s elimination of waste products from his or her cuddly little body.

We weren’t always like this. Back in 1977 when we got our first dog, Astra, house-breaking seemed a somewhat mysterious process, one that involved scattering newspapers throughout the house and yelling at her whenever she failed to deposit her urine or feces on them. By the time we brought home our first CCI pup (Tucker, early in 2005), we’d already learned a lot. We knew that having the puppy sleep in a crate expedited the training process, since dogs instinctively dislike soiling their dens. We’d learned that you have to take the pup outside as soon as it wakes up and to praise it lavishly for performing. CCI refined our knowledge, instructing us that very young puppies usually need to pee at least once an hour (when they’re not sleeping), and that they need to “toilet” 10-15 minutes after eating or drinking. If you followed this regimen conscientiously, within a few months, you would have a young dog who never urinated or defecated in any indoor space and, miraculously, would reliably pee or poop (and sometimes both!) when given the verbal command to “hurry!”

Given all that we’ve learned, I’m not sure why Steve continues to get so upset every time a new puppy has an accident. I myself do not love when this happens; the thought of bringing armies of additional bacteria and viruses into my den does not make me happy. But every dog we’ve ever owned – before CCI and since – has eventually stopped pooping and peeing in the house. Steve continues to react as if something horrible has happened; as if we’ve failed in some fundamental way as puppy-raisers. 

And we continue to fail. Last night, for example, I’d had Dionne up in my office, playing with me for a while and then napping in the little kennel next to my desk.  Around 9, I woke her up, carried her down into Steve’s office, and offered to take her out to toilet before I went up to my bedroom to read. “No, I’ll take her back in a little while,” he responded.  So idiotically, we put her in the large kennel next to his desk – where a minute later, she peed.

Hurrying nicely, in response to the command. 

She’d defecated around 6 p.m., and then again a few hours later (that was a good save; I’d spotted her beginning to squat down, snatched her up, ran her outside, and heaped praised upon her for depositing her load on the patio.) So we weren’t concerned when she wouldn’t poop again on Steve’s last trip outside with her around 10 p.m.  The night went reasonably well, although when she started whining at 2 a.m., he took her out and she wouldn’t do anything except run around in the dark and pick up leaves to munch on.

By 6:15 she was squealing again, and Steve nobly took her out (pee but no poop), fed her breakfast, left her in the kennel in his office, and returned to bed where we dozed, exhausted, for another 40 minutes.  But when we went down to her kennel, she had pooped in it.  We’d screwed up yet again! Just five minutes ago, I suggested he take her back to pee again, even though she had peed a copious amount for me 35 minutes earlier (see photo). Five minutes later, he returned reported no action. He put her in the crate, and two minutes later she peed again. "You jerk!" he bellowed.  (He wasn't talking about himself.) 

Is this too boring to read about? It’s pretty tedious to live through. Maybe that’s why I forget it all the minute it ends.