Two days ago I dropped the Lord Valorious Vom Hoppy back with my friend (who is also my breeder and, as far as I know, hasn’t yet realized that I’ve substituted her kennel name with ‘Hoppy’).

I had written that I’d spent a strangely emotional weekend getting to know him, and considering whether or not to adopt him, and – in the process – working with this 3/4 puppy.

We worked on leash walking (he showed me that a tri-paw’d dog requires someone who practically jogs alongside him, as he ‘walks’ very quickly and speed regulation isn’t his strong point (very cute). Also, I was very thin those days due to all the exercise.

I introduced him to watching T.V. – both the ‘dog kind’:

And the ‘people kind’

We also worked on stairs, which was a rather interesting process of him stepping down with his one front leg, turning his body around 180 degrees whilst hopping down two steps with his back legs, and then doing the same – turning around another 180 degrees with two more hops of his front leg.   He sort of wHirled his way down the stairs.

We called it the tornado.

Soon to become all the rage on the tri-paw’d stair descent circuit.

But finally, after a lot of thought and snuggles and encouragements and whispers of undying love into those huge, gorgeous ears, it was time to bring him back to my friend.

And after a three-hour ride, which included many, many liver treats (mostly for him), we arrived in the lakes region of New Hampshire and he and I wandered up to the house and my friend let us in.

And my hoppy little pal was immediately surrounded by his aunts and his ‘Grandma’ and he hipped and hopped all over the house joining in on all kinds of barking and whining.

The only left-over vestige of our time together was when I went down the hall to use the bathroom. All the dogs were in the other room, and I heard something behind me.

And turned to find my little escort.

In an instant, I was smiling and snuggling him all over again (through not quite unexpected tears).

But I did okay, all because he did okay. He truly made it easy on me.

And after taking a few more pictures of a few more beautiful dogs (and one super cute baby), I got back into my car and headed home, to the Nearly Perfect Husband and Self-Proclaimed-Perfect-Boy Gabe.

And to the dogs.

My dogs.

And I was all sorts of excited to see them, and snuggle them, and open up my heart even wider to them just like I knew I would.

Her Royal Highness, the Princess Bunny-Blaze, Fred, and Marshal Dillon Dingle met me at the door, sniffing me all over, assessing where I’d been and who I’d been with while I was gone.

In total Princess fashion, Blaze whined loudly and wHooted, and jumped up, and then caught herself and got down because royal etiquette dictates self-control.

Fred’s tail whirled around at all the smells – expecting more dog friends to follow me through the door, perhaps (and hoping those dogs carried with them the crumbs of something yummy to nibble on).

And Marshal?

Normally the goofball of the bunch, the most likely to get so excited that he trips over himself and goes spiraling off to the side?

Marshal Dillon Dingle took one whiff of me, analyzed the fact that I might have spent my time with one or more other dogs – and one of them might be a puppy.

You have to understand that this represented the ultimate betrayal, as Marshal is the puppy in this house.

And the beneficiary of all that being the youngest entitles him to.

So while Blaze and Fred vocalized and wagged their tales and prepared to fill me in on all the goings on since I’d left the house four days earlier…. Marshal Dillon Dingle huffed, and stepped off to the side, all by himself.

This, the puppy with the constant goofball expression, his tongue often lolling off to the side of his open, smiley mouth.

And I swear, in my head, with some sort of telepathy-esque talent he had acquired while I was gone, I heard…

“Ya. A puppy?…

We need to talk.”

Uh.

Oh.

Thanks for readin’.

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