Alert Level Orange

This new puppy is refocusing my definition of readiness. This morning, instead of crawling out of bed into my bathrobe (or, more specifically, Tony's bathrobe), I leaped from my warm sheets into an outfit suitable for taking puppies to the parking lot. A not fashionable, but functional ensemble of warm-up pants and bulky sweatshirt to combat the Ohio April morning chill. Sure enough, as Tony was leaving, we had to make our third potty exit of the day. Thank God it wasn't raining this time.

When we got back in the house, I took advantage of the 30 minutes or so I had until the next potty run to dash through a quick shower. First, though, I had to coax a roiling mass of dog flesh into the bathroom with me. (Sarge and Beauregard have been "playing" with a rope toy. Sarge steals it, Beau chases him, there is much snarling from Sarge, it's ugly. And you better not be standing in the way of either of them. Sarge can't bowl you over, but Beau sure can. I can't wait until he weighs 120 pounds. This is going to be awesome!) Once the dogs were safely shut in the bathroom with me, I showered with one eye open, to the soothing sounds of thrashing and snarling outside the steamy shower door. Seriously, I thought I was at the spa. But, I figure even if Beau pees in there, at least it is on tile instead of hardwood or slate.

***We now return to this blog after our regularly-unscheduled potty break, preceded by Beau starting to pee on the floor, after which I grabbed him, ran outside in the cold and waited 10 minutes for him to...do nothing. My toes are going to freeze off.***

I sprang from the shower, moisturized in record time, jammed my legs into some jeans, pulled on a tank and a hoodie and reported back to puppy-patrol. Out in the kitchen, I stuffed dog-treats of various sizes and states of decomposition into my jeans pockets (God knows how long my pants are going to smell like Beefy Grill Bites. I'm expecting neighborhood dogs to chase me long into my 30's.) I put plastic bags and house keys in my sweatshirt pockets because there is nothing worse than trying to grab all that when you are simultaneously hoisting a 25-pound pile of limp dog into your arms and trying to open a door, with another, smaller, infinitely more savage dog attached to your leg, desperately trying to dash out the door the first time you look the other way. And I keep my flipflops on constantly, just in case we have a pee-mergency.

In my one-dog days, I used to lounge around the house, balancing the checkbook and writing in my robe until about 10, at which point I'd take a leisurely shower and spend about 30 minutes on my hair and makeup. Those were the days. Now, I'm lucky to get my wet hair pinned back before I have to dash outside in the cold. Forget makeup. Today I'm counting on doing it when Tony gets home from work at noon, since he has a half-day vacation.

This is, I think, preparing me for motherhood. Everyone keeps saying that, so I guess I'll believe them. I don't think I've ever appreciated diapers more than in the past three days. If only the doggy could wear them, it would be so much easier. I could just change him whenever he squats on my fireplace hearth or hardwood floors.

But for now, I'm going to try to sneak in a few loads of laundry, get feeling back to my icicle toes and dig broken bits of puppy treat out of my pockets. Don't want my washer smelling like Beefy Grill Bites.