It sounded like a good idea at the time ...

We had a dog already. Annie, quirky, fun and a tad mentally ill but overall a good dog. Two years of intensive training and she was now a loved member of the family.





Hockey season was ending and because life with 4 boys, a husband, one dog and a job apparently wasn't active enough, Jen got an idea. A dumb, dumb, dumb idea.




Why not get another dog? Ok there are about ten thousand reason I can think of NOW for not getting another dog, but at the time? Logic escaped me. Annie was getting fat and I was worried she was lonely while I worked. Apparently I thought getting a pet for my pet was smart. Did I mention the dumb, dumb idea?




WE (this implies someone else was involved in the decision, that would be a lie, but don't tell my husband I said so) scanned the SPCA website looking for a "rescue" pooch that might suit our family.




WE found a cute, little Jack Russell pup listed. The fact that the add said "Breed Experienced Owners Preferred" should have been a warning. The fact that his previous owners dropped him off, an expensive pup to buy, with nary a second glance, might have been my second warning. The fact that when I called to inquire about him the SPCA director apologized for the poor picture in the add because "we couldn't get him to stand still" might have been my third warning. The fact they were willing to ship him to us and assume all costs for transport if we were willing to take him within 48 hours might have been my fourth. I, apparently, am a bit slow.





And so we have Trip. Or actually TRIPPY as his name has morphed into. Because there is something completely trippy about watching a dog seemingly high on crack destroy your home.




He arrived seemingly healthy but harboring GERMS. Nasty, nasty contagious germs that resulted in chronic puking by both dogs for two weeks. Oh and hundreds of dollars in vet bills. You know, because I had this good idea that my pet need a pet.





Trip didn't sleep. Ever. He whined, he licked, he dropped balls on your head, he chewed, he ate my dirty underwear but what he didn't do was sleep. In absolute desperation last week, we found the solution thanks to Dr. Google. One half sleeping pill stuffed into his mouth. Wait one hour. Hide all toys. Turn off all the lights in the house. Ensure children understand they are not to make a single sound. So now, just maybe if we are really lucky, and only if he is wrapped around my neck and in my bed, will he sleep.


I have a hard enough time sharing my bed with the six and a half foot giant I married. I hate - absolutely HATE - sleeping with a smelly, scratchy, snugly, licky, noisy dog. This dislike is now irrelevant because if I don't, none of us sleep. Now I skip giving him the pill, take one for myself and hope for the best.


(A kennel you say. Been there. Done that. A kennel is no match for a Jack Russell. )



Then there is the pee. How a ten pound dog can manage to daily pee three gallons of urine spread over 2 levels of house is a mystery I do not comprehend. It would be bad enough if I told you his favorite target is the laundry.


But its worse.



Because although yes, his favorite target IS laundry, technically I am not sure if you can call it laundry when you are still WEARING the clothes. There really is nothing more heart warming than to have your cute, bundle of energy dog leap onto your lap and douse you with a warm spray.



The dirty underwear fetish has created a few embarrassing moments. So has the fact that he can escape from our yard with ease. We are now the only home on our street with rolls of chicken wire spread across our yard. We do not live in a Chicken Wire sort of neighbourhood.



He's active. He's crazy. He has impulse control issues. He needs medication. In other words, he fits right in. Welcome to the family Trippy. You're stuck with us for the long haul.