Dog Crazy

Or crazy dog.

We seem to be making progress on the housetraining thing; more hits outside than misses inside, as it were. How much this means is debatable--it may be that the Em-Dog (her rapper street name) has me half-trained. In the first 24 hours, perhaps aware that the metaphorical cellophane had only just come off, she was all sweetness and light. She's still breathtakingly sweet and fairly light--but she also has discovered her teeth and wants to bite and chew everything. Particularly clothes and the flesh under them. The current thinking is that you can yell loudly, as if hurt (as if? as if? Ow.) but don't push the dog away. Of course, if the dog has her teeth so deeply sunk into your pants that she's scraping your shins and poking holes in the denim, a certain amount of gentle disentanglement is required.

I've been walking her all over the local streets--mostly to tire her out, because she's a very high-energy creature. This has meant she has met many many people (and a few dogs). And I'm encountering the Dog Network, a thing of which I had heard but not met in person. So when Spouse left the house the other day, two people walked by and one turned and said "Aren't you Emily's person?" We have an identity!

Because the little dog had a small flea problem, we've dosed her with an all-in-one flea/tick/heartworm med which you are supposed to apply at the base of the neck, just above the shoulderblades. "Part the hair," the directions say. But how do you part hair on a dog with such short hair that it lies utterly flat? "Til you see the skin beneath?" The skin beneath glows under her white fur, but that fur is remarkably protective of the aforementioned skin. Ah, well. I did my best. And Emily is doing her best too, I'm sure.