Celebrating 50 years with a return to nips, poops and naps

We have a new member in our family. And after two weeks together, I’m amazed that all our other body members are still intact. For the latest addition to our brood is a “Chirish” Wheaten Terrier called Cadbury whose bark is (thankfully) non-existent but unfortunately, at only 14-weeks old, the same can’t be said about his bite.

Cadbury joined us to celebrate a monumental birthday and if I thought a pup would make me young again, I was wrong. I am currently feeling all of my 50 years and more, and the only nipper in the family has four legs. But we love him. Especially when he’s sleeping.

The baby similarities are scary. Super and I have been reduced to discussing poops and pees, frequencies and consistencies. I receive a morning report by text with the overnight and first shift update. Complete with that little emoticon of steaming brown doop. I’m learning to hate that emoticon.

We’d discussed having a pooch for many years but apartment living, landlords and frequent moves have always been our excuses. Now we have a house, or more importantly our own home, and we are right beside one of the biggest doggie baths in the USA, Lake Michigan.

His name came with him and with his chocolatey-coloured coat, both milk and dark, I think it’s perfect. It’s already been shortened to “Cabbie” which is also appropriate as I seem to spend hours shouting it after a rapidly-disappearing, fast-moving object.

The men in the family have launched a campaign to rename him, with Fergie or Giggsie popular suggestions after a certain football team (Moysie was never an option).

Male Mini-me is also pushing for Dougal, not because beloved pooch’s shaggy coat reminds him of the Magic Roundabout character (what do you mean, you’ve never heard of him?). Rather his goofy, slightly bemused air does resemble the young pup priest in the TV series “Father Ted”. If you've never seen it, you’re missing Irish dry humour at its best.

While coming to grips with the doo-doo’s and don’t’s of puppy training, I’m also having to learn puppy-owner etiquette. Cabbie now knows he has to sit nicely and wait until the approaching dog-owner (usually female) decides whether he is sufficiently well-enough behaved to socialize with their darling. 

I have a feeling I met the Park Mother on our first outing together. Our British accents passed muster so Cabbie’s limited manners were overlooked – this time. And I was given the nod to attend “Yappy Time”, the ultimate pet gathering, held between 5:30 to 7pm every week day, although apparently it’s more relaxed at the weekends. 

After five years in the Big Apple, I thought nothing would surprise me as to the lengths dog-owners will go here to pamper their pets. I was wrong. Telling a friend about our latest arrival, she confided in me about amazing boarding kennels near O’Hare airport where you can leave Fido to play while you fly away. Makes sense, I thought, especially when you can apparently leave your car in their car park while you are on holiday. Positive bargain, I thought.

Then I looked it up on the internet. First, I chose the wrong noun. It is not a kennel, it is a resort. The dogs do not have pens, they have suites. There are slumber party and relaxation lounges, bone-shaped pools and a host of additional extras such as pool-view rooms, personal cuddle time and mineral water. I’d be afraid that a stay at the $100/night Top Dog suite with a full-size human bed and a flat screen TV may mean Cabbie would never want to return home. Especially as he would have a bed-side photo of us all to watch over him. And I discovered you have to pay extra to park your car -  and supply its family photo yourself, I assume.

I suppose in a world where "come" and "down" are the norm, no one notices if you slip a little "on" in there......