Easily Excitable

When we got Boone one year ago today, it took approximately 30 minutes for me to start thinking, “This was an aggressive decision.”

I’m not one given to impulsivity and spontaneity. Now, that bent (or lack thereof) does not count for my mouth, which has been known to fire from the hip quite frequently. 

But when we got to Momma and Daddy’s to show them, along with Zayden, our new addition to the family, I did have the thought, “Was this a good decision?”

This feeling only doubled when I fell asleep the first three nights with my fingers in his crate. 

As it turned out, Boone initially hated crates. He was situated on my side of the bed, as Trey had work the next few days while I got to celebrate President’s Day. 

Boone would cry and whine until I put my fingers through the bars of his crate. He’d lick a bit, but then he’d settle down. I made the mistake a few times of taking my hand out when he got quiet, only to find out we’d start this process all over again. So, every night for a stretch, I slept with an outstretched arm. 

And so, Boone began to train us. 

We thought it would be the other way around: it wasn’t. 

He’s trained us to take him out to potty in the morning, allow him some playtime in the afternoon, and let him snuggle with us before we lay him on his bed at night. 

He’s even, against all odds, trained us to play fetch. 

He loves to have us throw the ball, just so he can run to it, look back at us with a look of “Fell for it again, I see,” and take off in the other direction, sans ball. 

And you know what this idiot (me) does everytime? 

I run and pick up the ball. 

For Boone, it’s all about the journey and what you can teach your parents along the way. 

Pro tip? Don’t ever let me train your dog. 

I have been particularly handy in making our own a useless house dog.

My dad, who grew up hunting and working on a farm, believes in having ‘working dogs’- you know, those animals that earn their keep by doing…er…productive(?) things. 

Daddy believes that is possible. Boone believes that is hilarious. 

Boone will never be a hunting dog, as he is less interested in actual animals than marking every bit of territory the deer, coyotes, bears, bunnies, and cats have crossed in the backyard. 

He will never be a therapy dog; he may well be the reason why we, in fact, might need therapy. 

He will never be a performing dog, as he is every bit as devoid of grace as his mom: our hardwood floors allow him his own version of figure skating, as he slips and slides like it’s his job. 

(To mediate his theatrics, we purchased him some socks. Surely, my tough-cookie ancestors wept. Boone then decided that his primary enemy in life was doggie socks.)

Boone will also never be a guard dog, either, as he has very rational fears of items such as electric toothbrushes, vacuum cleaners, taxidermied deer heads, and cardboard boxes. 

Truly, Boone would be quite content if we gave our lives in order to protect him, rather than the other way around. 

In short? Boone has no real talents, and really nothing to bring to the table, save for the fact that he is really good at being just a dog. 

He’s naturally gifted in all the wrong ways:

He can tear up a toy in record time. 

He thinks that the perfect time to do roll over and puppy stretch is when his parents are fifteen minutes late for church.

He sheds enough for three dogs every day. 

He waits until he thinks we’re asleep, then jumps into our bed, laying smack dab in between Trey and me. 

He can chase a deer, but only when his parents are pressed for time and shouting, “POTTY!” at the tops of their lungs. 

He hogs blankets and bed space.

He knows tricks, such as circle, wherein Trey’s taught him how to turn a circle at the backdoor. However, any life-saving trick, such as stop? He may or he may not, depending on his mood that day.

He urinates or poops when he thinks he’s about to get in trouble on his outside escapades, so as to avoid getting dressed down. 

All of his skills really came to a head the other morning when I was reading my Bible, trying to spend time with the Lord of Hosts. Boone felt like he wasn’t getting enough attention, so he proceeded to drink so much water that he walked in front of me and vomited.

That did get my attention. 

Again, naturally gifted…in all the wrong ways. 

This is our Boone. 

And we are flat-out obsessed with him. 

On paper, it makes no sense why we love dogs the way we do. They require potty-training, they chew things like the coffee table or the wall (it sounds illogical but trust me when I say it can be done), they get sick at the MOST inopportune moments, and their vet bills cost about as much as a luxury sedan.

And yet the love that a dog gives is otherworldly. There is no other creature that celebrates your arrival home quite like a dog. 

That’s something that’s hard to quantify on paper, and it’s even harder to say how that could outweigh all the wickedness a golden retriever could commit in one day. 

And yet? We people? We need unadulterated love, and for some of us, part of that love comes in a smelly, shedding, tearing-up-every-toy package. 

There is no dog quite like our dog. 

I’m sure you- whoever you are- have a similar story about your own dog. 

Isn’t that incredible- that there are so many dog personalities, and yet largely, we would all insist that ours is the goodest boy or goodest girl?

Boone is one of the things God’s used to remind me to enjoy the present moment with all that’s in me.

I’m spurred on to give this dog as much love as one golden retriever can stand because I know that, whether we get eight years or eighteen, it won’t be nearly long enough for my liking. 

That helps put things in perspective as I pick dog hair off my sweatshirts. 

There’s a certain type of love you can give a dog when he is your primary child, and we give him that in spades. 

Boone might prefer we’d lighten up a bit, if he had his way.

It’s been one year with Boone and all his ‘giftedness,’ and it’s been one of the best yet. 

Praise God for dogs.