Chapter 2:
Life With Our New Baby:
Simba:

Simba was a Persian cat– the stereotypical kind that belongs in the lap of a criminal mastermind who is about to unleash a plot for world domination. He was not my favorite animal– he spat up hairballs all over the house; hid leaving you worried sick that he had somehow gotten outside of the house; and he had a knack for knocking his sealed food bucket onto the ground, so that he could eat some of the food that he had scattered throughout the kitchen. His haughty feline sneer oozed superiority, and let everyone in the house know their place. Everyone that is, except for the smiling, baby Labrador Retriever who knew with an absolute certainty that everyone in the world loved him as much as he loved them.

When we got home, I carried the little newborn in. When we got inside, Simba was wandering around the kitchen. He had made himself scarce when we had come home with our new baby, but he seemed to have decided that it was time to come out and assert his hegemony as the top pet.

Walking up to my feet, Simba glanced up at the pup, who was struggling to jump down and see his new playmate. The cat made one aloof pass before heading to the living room and hopping onto my desk. I set Finn down, and he instantly bee lined for the living room, knowing that the cat was as eager to play as he was. Simba hastily retreated to the top of my computer desk, staring down with a mix of disdain and abject terror. The pup sat at the bottom of the desk barking and waiting for his new friend to come down to play, completely unperturbed by the hissing that greeted him from above.

It became very obvious in under a minute that the cat would never come to be friends with my beautiful baby boy, so I lifted the siege by picking my pup up and carrying him from the room while he yipped playfully back at his new friend. Nicole and I hastily moved some boxes into the hallway, so that the pup could not get into the room to harass Simba. Seeing the barrier, he decided that the best strategy was to sit beside the boxes and bark until Simba decided to move them and allow him passage back into the living room. I was forced to scold my new puppy to stop the ruckus, which he did. He then followed me into the bedroom where I was reading, but had to periodically dart down the hall to see whether Simba had reconsidered his decision on being friends.

**********

Over the next week, Simba took his time getting to know the puppy– from afar. He never tired of watching Finn from atop boxes, chairs, and counter tops. Finn always barked in his little puppy voice when he saw the cat, and jumped up and down to show Simba that he really wanted to play. Simba, on the other hand, was quite content to sit above the puppy and gaze down at him with cool disdain.

A game between the two slowly took shape. Simba trying to avoid the frenetic ball of energy who charged up and down the halls, making messes on the papers in the corner near the door and making an ungodly amount of noise for a creature that small. Finn, on the other hand, stalked the cat– looking for his opportunity to convince Simba that he would make a great playmate.

Occasionally Finn would corner Simba when Nicole or I were in the other room. Generally, he would jump on him and wrestle in true puppy fashion, then lick him with his big puppy tongue. Simba, who was declawed, would then defend himself by swating Finn on the nose, hissing, and then heading for higher ground. Unfortunately, the pup got the impression that this was all part of the game, and would continue to stalk the cat, until one of us came in to break things up.
This game of cat and, um, dog went on for a few days. Simba would usually see the pup coming and get in a swat on the nose. This seemed to leave Finn thinking he’d been tagged, was therefore "it", and it was game on. He would then chase the cat through the house to try to return the favor, usually resulting in a lot of noise and some of our belongings being knocked over.

Over the course of the first week, the two little animals and I worked out a sort of understanding whereby Finn would not attack the cat, the cat would not smack Finn, and I would not have to break up the fight before anyone got hurt. Things stayed tense; however, and Finn would periodically break the tacit agreement by pouncing on his pompous playmate and licking him from head to toe.

We muddled through the next several weeks in this manner with relations steadily improving between the two. On the morning before Simba was to leave; however, the fragile peace was irreparably shattered by an incident that would surely haunt Simba until the end of his days. Depending on one’s perspective, the incident was either hilariously funny or terrifyingly undignified. Dog people will almost certainly think the former, while cat people will probably think the latter.

It was early in the morning, and Nicole had already left for work. I was in washroom having a bath with little Finn sitting beside me and the door closed to prevent unwanted interactions between the bitter rivals. As I lay there, I heard an alarming crash from the front of the house. The puppy started barking, and I quickly toweled off, threw on a shirt and some underwear, and headed out to investigate. Before doing so, I closed the door behind me so that Finn would not come to "help". Dripping water, I ran out to the kitchen to ascertain the problem. There, in the middle of the floor, was Simba– buried in a mound of cat food and eating himself out.

I was more than a little bit annoyed, as this was not the first time that Simba had pulled this stunt with his food. Just as I started to bark out the cat’s name in annoyance, I caught a little black ball flying through the doorway to the kitchen. Food flew in all directions as my little barking buddy flew through the kitchen at top speed and pounced on the offending feline. Two little balls of fur, one white and one black, rolled through the mess on the floor and into the open cupboard. Simba howled indignantly while little Finn barked between great licks of his disproportionately large tongue. The little animals rolled all of the way down the length of the cupboards before far cupboard door burst open with Simba making his escape at full speed with little Finn barking at the top of his little lungs, while his tail wagged furiously. The chase finally ended with Finn cornering the cat atop the computer desk in the living room. He bounced up and down looking to play more, as the cat sneered and hissed at him.

As annoyed as I was at the cat, I could not help but feel a little sorry for him when I looked at the state that my pup had left him in. Simba had been literally licked from head to toe. It seemed that rather than nipping at him, the pup had decided to give him kisses in a vain attempt to win his friendship. I laughed, as I saw that he was literally covered with puppy slobber from head to toe. He even had to shake his paws in an attempt to dry them. I picked Finn up to separate the combatants, but he continued to bark at his playmate. Simba wanted no part of any further association, so the cat slinked deeper into the recesses of the desk while the two of us headed back to the bathroom, Finn barking over my shoulder as we went. .

A tense peace settled over the house for the few days before Simba returned home. The cat’s haughtiness seemed gone, as he slinked from one hiding place to another. Finn explored his new environment; seeming to have forgotten the cat, with a happiness and zest for life that became his hallmark.

*****

Mornings with Finn:

Simba left a few days later, but changes were afoot in the house. The new puppy was adorable in many ways, most of the time; but not in all ways, all of the time. House training a puppy is a trying experience, and Finn was no exception. Once Simba left, Finn’s primary source of entertainment was gone. This meant that someone had to pick up the slack, and Nicole and I were the only two candidates.

At the time, Nicole was spending a great deal of time at the restaurant as the assistant manager, while I spent days substitute teaching. This meant that I ended up with more time at home, as I was not called in to work every day and school ended at three o’clock every day-- barring days involving coaching or other extra curriculars. The result was that I was the lucky owner that the pup bonded to the first and the quickest.

When one looks at a snuggly little ball of fur, this might not seem much of an inconvenience, but the practice was somewhat different than the theory. Finn spent all of his time, save for the time that he spent getting into mischief, living on my heels. For the first couple of weeks, it was even cute, but like so many things that are cute with babies, eventually cute transformed into annoying.

I did not realize how much of an inconvenience this was, until one morning a week after we got Finn, I got a last minute call to substitute at the local middle school. I said good morning to Nicole, rolled out of bed, and headed to the bathroom for a very quick bath. I closed the door to keep the pup out as I shaved and brushed my teeth, while the bath ran. Finn whined quietly just outside as I finished up and got into the warm bath. I felt sorry for him, but I needed a few minutes alone with the hot water to wake up and face the day.

Something about the sound of me getting into the water must have triggered some sort of primal instinct in the little labrador outside, because just as I sat down I heard a bang on the door that drew my attention. The door crashed open violently, and my little buddy charged through. Without any thought to the consequences, my tiny buddy charged across the floor and fluidly leaped over the end of the tub and into the soapy water. Oblivious to my yelling, he half swam and half bounced from the foot of the tub to the head to say good morning to me.

Taking the pup in both hands and placing his sopping little body on the ground, I strongly admonished him not to join me in the tub again. Oblivious to the scolding, he shook the water off of his body all over the bathroom before running a few circles over my school clothes, and then making himself comfortable by using them as a makeshift bed. Having woken up to the sounds of my argument with Finn, Nicole came into the room to see the mess. Saying nothing, she just laughed and went back to bed.

Finn sat contentedly for the rest of my bath, staring at me and wagging his wet little tail happily. I quickly washed off, so that I could clean the mess of water, soap, and black hair that the little brat had left in his wake. He ran circles around and yapped at me the whole time to help with the clean up. I ignored him because I did not want to give him attention immediately after he had misbehaved. After several seconds of firm resolve, I broke under the unrelenting gaze of his puppy eyes. Picking him up with the towel, I dried him off while gently scolding him.

Already running behind, I hurriedly dressed while Finn ran happy circles around my. feet. I headed to the kitchen, tripping over my pup several times as he ran through my legs– eager to see what I was doing. I prepared both breakfast and lunch hastily– peanut butter toast and peanut butter sandwiches respectively. I gobbled down my breakfast while saran wrapping my lunch and petting little Finn all the while. I wish that I had taken a video of those moments for anyone who maintains that men can not multitask.

Fortunately for me, I am compulsively early in my preparations for work, so I was able to get everything ready and dash out the door for the short walk to work. I walked quickly so that I could go over the teacher’s lesson plan before class, and was pleased when I saw that I was going to arrive twenty minutes early to go over the lesson plan and put some items on the board for the students to follow. I walked in the door, and greeted the principal, mr. Wowchuck. As I did so, I ran my tongue over my teeth– a nervous habit that I had developed years before when I had gotten a denture to replace a tooth that had been knocked out by a hockey stick.

To my shock and horror, I discovered that I had forgotten to put the tooth in before leaving the house. I told Dick that I would be right back, and then fled out the front door. I ran all the way home, dashed through the house, yelled goodbye again, and ran all the way back to school. I got through the door about five minutes before the bell– just in time to find my classroom, mop the sweat that was pouring down my forehead, and find (but not read) the lesson plan.
I muddled through the day, and looked forward to going home to see the pup in spite of it all.

*****

As we got to know Finn, it became obvious that he was not your typical Labrador Retriever. Every description of the dogs that has ever been written emphasizes the fact that they are upstanding canine citizens. Although Finn was wonderful, cute, and loyal; he had what can best be described as honesty issues. The first time that this became apparent, Nicole and I were working in the yard planting some flowers. Finn galloped around, happily playing as we worked.
As we worked, I kept an eye on the pup because he was just small enough to squeeze out the back fence. Fortunately, he seemed to want to stay near us most of the time, so it was an easy enough job. After a while, he got braver and started to drift further. As he made his way to the middle of the yard, he made a fascinating discovery in the form of a tree that had been planted in the middle of the yard.

Initially the little guy stood and watched the tree for a couple of minutes. This seemed strange, but he didn’t seem to be doing anything wrong, so I went back to work. When I turned back toward the pup and the tree though, he was digging furiously at the base. I ran across the yard yelling, "Bad Finn, bad pup."

When I reached the tree, I picked him up. He greeted me with big puppy eyes and a furiously wagging tail. There was no way that was going to work though because he was not going to dig up the tree. I scolded him, but realized that he was not in any way taking me seriously. We walked over to where I had been working, and I set him down beside me. Again, he dashed over to the tree and resumed his furious digging.

I ran across the yard and pulled the little dog out of his hole. As I lifted him out of the crevasse that he’d been digging, his little legs continued to dig the air furiously. I picked the little guy up, and turned him to face me for a scolding. Interestingly, the little pup smiled at me while spilling a mouth full of grass onto my shirt. "Please dad, just let me dig a little more," the look implored me.

"Bad Finn," I scolded gently him before putting him down.

After being set down, the pup continued to watch me while I worked. As soon as my back was turned, bam, he was off again. Sprinting to his hole, he continued his excavation with all due haste. Again, I chased him, scolded him, set him down, went to work, and then had to chase him back to the hole. We repeated the pattern several times, and Nicole got the camera because the little guy was so cute that a picture needed to be taken.

Well, the next few hours gave me a new appreciation for the work of national geographic photographers the world over. Nicole and I snapped picture after picture as the little ball of fur, dirt, and slobber darted around the yard at full speed. He spent hours digging holes to hide himself from imaginary enemies, and developed a new maneuver that would come to be known as a Finnysault.

Basically, the Finnysault involved running at someone at full speed, diving headfirst, rolling onto his back between their legs, wriggling furiously on his back, and wagging his tail. He followed this complex gymnastic move by smiling exultantly and begging for tummy pets. After the initial shock of seeing this passed, Nicole and I gently scolded him to try to break the habit before the habit broke his neck.

In the days before digital cameras, we could not see the results of our work until we went to Costco to have the rolls developed. Having used two or three rolls of film though, we were sure that we probably had dozens of great pictures of our new baby. Putting away the camera, we watched the pup run around the yard exploring and loving live. He played until he was exhausted, went inside with us, and collapsed in a little heap on the floor to sleep it off.

**********

We quickly realized that having a puppy who had not completed potty training could be bad for the carpets. Our first decision was to erect a barricade on either side of the living room. Not having had the forethought to purchase a puppy gate, we decided to use old packing boxes, chairs, and anything else that looked suitably impenetrable. Finn danced around as we built the barrier, sniffing boxes and running into us to get pets as we worked.

When we finished our wall of boxes, I headed into the living room to use the computer in the secure knowledge that Finn could not follow me in and have an accident on the carpet. I figured that it would also afforded me a few minutes on the computer now and then without the little guy jumping all over me constantly. Our plan seemed quite sound.

That night after supper, I stepped over our little wall and fired up the computer. Nearly as soon as I entered the room without Finn, he began to howl. It was the kind of keening sound that one would expect of an entire wolf pack that had lost a member. I looked back, and saw little Finn trying to climb the wall in vain as he whined.

Feeling sorry for the pup, and simultaneously realizing that he had to learn that he could not always go where I went, I turned back to the computer. I wrote as Finn whined, but eventually the cacophony stopped. I continued to write, knowing that I had emerged victorious. Eventually, I turned to check on little Finn, and to my shock saw him laying across the dining room table. He wagged his tail contentedly, and watched me as I worked.

Not sure how such a small dog had gotten up onto the high table, I came out of the room to put him back onto the ground. He wagged his tail and ran into my leg, happy that I had come back. The happiness was transitory, however, as I stepped over the wall into the living room again. Finn whined for a second, and then unperturbed he ran over to one of the chairs. He vaulted into the chair, turned, and then climbed onto the table.

I realized quickly that this could not be allowed. Before I scolded him and took him off of the table, I realized that I needed a picture of him. I headed off to the room to get the camera, but noticed as I retrieved it that Finn was running circles around my feet. The little guy had realized that I had left the room and followed me. Knowing that I could outsmart a two month old puppy, I went back into the living room and waited for him to hop up on the table. Unfortunately, it was like the little guy had a sixth sense. As I watched him from my side of the barrier, he cocked his head to one side, raised his eyebrow, and watched me from his side.

If I didn’t know better, I would have sworn that the puppy was mocking me. I waited patiently, knowing that if I captured this on film, thousands of dollars were sure to follow when I mailed it in to puppy picture contests. The two of us waited, staring at one another. Each waiting for the other to make a move. As predicted, Finn was the first to crack. Unfortunately, he did not crack in the way that I hoped. Sensing that I must want to play, he started to bark and bounce up around.

In frustration, I put the camera up on the desk. Turning to the computer, I figured that it would be better to act naturally, continue, and wait for the shot. Finn sat at the base of the wall as I typed. He waited patiently; but he sensed a trap again, so he did not approach the table. We continued our standoff for about an hour before he started to whine again. Unable to resist, I stepped back into the kitchen to pick up my crying baby. He immediately wagged his tail, and all thoughts of the puppy proof fence that I had built evaporated.

I would see my little guy climb onto the table again, but I would never manage to catch him on camera. It was like he had a sixth sense about the whole thing, and became as elusive as Bigfoot when the camera was around. In the end, I reconciled myself to a private memory instead of a million dollar picture.

**********

Over the next few weeks, Finn took to his new life with relish. The most frustrating part of any pup’s training is obviously toilet training. Finn, like every other baby in the world, had absolutely no idea about the where’s and when’s of appropriate elimination. As Finn was the first puppy that either of us had housebroken, we read about methods of housebreaking. Different people recommended different methods from rubbing the pup’s nose in the fecal matter when he made a mistake to teaching appropriate times and places by commands.

To start, we taught our pup to go on a designated spot on newspaper. This prevented the most egregious damage to the house, but was not at all ideal for anything other than preventing late night accidents. He did get paper training quickly, but we were not particularly enthused with him eliminating on a pile of papers inside the house.

The method that we finally settled on was one that we found in our Idiot’s Guide. It involved attempting to teach him to eliminate on command. Basically, whenever we thought that Finn needed to go to the washroom, we would take him outside and tell him to go. It seemed an easy concept, and it saved the pup some childhood trauma that I was sure the harsher methods would inflict.

The first time that I did it, I hitched up my baby boy’s leash, walked him out to the spot that Nicole and I had picked for his bathroom, and then gave the command. "Go bathroom Finny, go bathroom boy."

The pup looked up at me. I was sure that I saw in his face an odd mix of curiosity about what I was telling him to do and an appeal for a little privacy. Nevertheless, I continued to exhort him to go to the bathroom. A brief look of concentration on his part was quickly rewarded with a successful elimination. "Good boy, good boy! Good dog Finn," I praised him while fishing out a treat to reward him (the irony of awarding successful elimination with food was not lost on me, but you are supposed to reward successful behavior to reinforce it).

Over and over we repeated this ritual over the pup’s first weeks with us. Eventually, he became very good at it. He understood the command, and he understood that he would be rewarded whenever he successfully executed it. It came to the point where he would excitedly run to the door, jumping and wagging his tail, whenever he had to eliminate. He also became very fast to eliminate on command, and would not even look for the best place to go– as most dogs are wont to do.

One night, he ran to the door for his usual pre bed potty trip. He bounced and danced and wagged, while I put on my shoes. He seemed urgent, so I hurried him out the door and down the stairs right in front of me. As I did so, I absently said, "Don’t worry, buddy, we’ll go bathroom."
Well, the command was given, so I could not be angry about the results– even as I stood there in a puddle at the base of the steps. Finn looked up, smiling. He had done his part, now it was my turn to reward him with a treat.

Scowling down at the proud puppy, the rational part of my brain told me that the whole thing was my fault. Reluctantly reaching into my pocket, I fished out a puppy treat. Tossing it to Finn and damning him with faint praise. "Good pup," I managed to get between gritted teeth.
I walked my little guy in, and let him off of the leash. Taking off both my shoes and my socks, I headed straight for the bath. As I turned on the water, I heard Nicole come to the door. She asked, "Didn’t you already have a bath?"

"Yes, I’m having another," I answered.

"Why?"

"I just want to have one."

"Should I let Finn in? He’s waiting at the door."

"No."

**********

Life was speeding along, and after being potty trained, more decisions had to be made. Newborn puppies grow by leaps and bounds, literally changing every week. Finn was no exception. He seemed to be larger every day. The time quickly came to take Finn in to the vet to get his shots. The veterinarian was a nice lady who greeted us, gave Finn his shots, and then talked with us about our pup’s general health.

"He’s really a fine puppy," she started, "The standard shots should be enough for him, but there are some optional treatments that you might want to consider. Some people are giving their dogs heartworm pills as prevention. It isn’t something that is a problem here, but it’s available if you want it."

"Well, if there’s any chance of it, we’ll take the pills," I said, knowing that I’d regret it if I refused the medication and anything happened.

Going down her checklist, she continued, "Well, if you aren’t going to breed him, you really should consider neutering him."

"Um, well, we might want some time to think that one over..."

"I should say that there is no pain in the procedure, and the dog does not even notice a change."
"Um, yeah. I think we might want to wait until we’re sure about breeding him. We’ll make sure that we let you know though."

I hustled the little guy out and headed straight home. When we arrived, Nicole and I sat down and discussed the vet’s advice. "She did say that he would not feel like he was missing out on anything, and that it would help to keep him out of trouble," she began.

"I just don’t know Nicole," I replied as I crossed my legs, "I think that we might want to breed him– he’s just so perfect."

"Well," she began diplomatically, "he is a cross breed. I’m not sure that too many people would want to breed their dogs with him."

"True though that might be, I do think that we could probably find someone. I just think that we might want to take some time deciding for certain."

"I agree, we might as well think about it."

Feeling a surge of relief, I looked down to see the little guy looking up happily. His tongue lolled happily and his wagging tail made his whole body wiggle. His absolute trust and affection made me feel a little guilty for even having the discussion, let alone entertaining the possibility of taking the vet’s advice in this matter. Reaching down, we petted and snuggled him, all thoughts of betrayal gone for the moment.

**********

The weeks went by, and Finn grew rapidly. We knew that a puppy’s maturation was rapid, but he seemed more mature every day. Well, in any case, bigger every day. By the time that he was a few months old, he was starting to take a look akin to that of a gangly teenager.

Finn’s favorite thing at this time was running around the yard. Because our back fence was incapable of keeping him in at the time, he always did so under close supervision. We would read or do yard work as our little Finn danced around the yard chasing bugs, dug holes, and ate grass. One afternoon, as we observed this daily ritual, I came to realize that he was growing up way too fast– and not necessarily in a positive way.

As I looked over the top of my book to ensure Finn’s safety, I noticed that he was looking back at me with both paws on the top of the fence. It was the conspiratorial glance that he always chanced when he was about to do something that he knew he was not allowed to– usually something that turned out to be risky and stupid.

Wondering what he had spotted, I walked over to the fence. He immediately dropped to four paws and looked up at me with his patented "I’m not up to anything" look. Then he headed off to play in the yard a little more. Looking out over the fence, I spotted the item of his interest almost immediately. Just across the street stood a Rottweiler that must have weighed nearly two hundred pounds. The dog simply stood there, staring placidly at the fence where Finn had been standing. "Shoo, go away dog," I yelled.

The dog obediently trotted off down the street to my relief. I went back to my reading, but sat near the fence in case the dog came back. Finn went back to playing, but in true Finnigan fashion he kept eying the fence where he had initially spotted his new "friend".

Everything went well for a few minutes, and then things went pear shaped in a matter of seconds. As I sat on the stoop reading my novel, a little black blur flew right past me. Before I could intervene, Finn’s top paws were on the top of the fence again digging for purchase to propel him over. I ran to pull him back by his little red collar, and looked out to see the dog on the street again. Looking down at my pup, it suddenly became obvious to me why the little guy was so interested in meeting this particular dog. If his physical reactions were any indication, she was in heat.

Dragging Finn inside by the scruff of his neck, and probably saving his life in the process, I told Nicole what had happened. Moments later, the call to the vet was complete. Within days we took the little guy to his appointment, and assumed that we would not have to worry about such behavior again.