My first child is named Rocky Balboa Beowoof Odegaard Kaiser. I bought him online using paypal, and with the click of my mouse, he was shipped from his foster home in Missouri to the San Francisco airport. How easy it is to purchase companionship from the comforts of my living room.
After he arrived, I sent an email to my friends and family announcing his adoption, attaching a picture. A few of them congratulated me on the birth of my baby, noting they hadn’t known I was pregnant. I shudder to think why my friends would think me capable of afflicting a human baby with the above name. I don’t like to think about what this says about me.
Rocky is a white, fluffy, bischon frise, and I am his proud mother. I believe everything he does is irresistible, and I am puzzled by how anyone can pass him, see his smiling puppy face and happily wagging tail, and not exclaim aloud about his surpassing cuteness. Few people do resist this temptation, I might add.
The more I get to know Rocky, the more I admire him, and the more I learn from him. I can think of several life lessons I’ve learned from him.
For instance, he never holds a grudge; his forgiveness is immediate and absolute. Like most dogs, he detests baths. He struggles to escape even when he’s covered in soap and water and his resistance is clearly futile. Yet, when the bath is finished, he speeds happily around the house, celebrating his release, licking me repeatedly. I was the cause of his torture session, yet he loves me and invites me to join in his finally-the-bath-is-over-euphoria. I’m pretty sure I don’t forgive others as easily. In fact, I think people have done lesser things to me, and I haven’t forgotten.
Rocky loves every dog he meets. When we visit my parents, he is so excited to play with their two dogs. Neither dog likes him, however. Abby, the sheltie, snaps at him, bares her teeth, runs when he approaches her, and generally makes her feelings known. Bailey, the golden retriever, is more tolerant, but even he lets out a low growl now and then. Rocky somehow doesn’t notice this antipathy and proceeds to initiate play with both of them, persisting in his belief that the world loves a white, fluffy puppy. Sometimes Rocky is jumping up to kiss Bailey on the mouth while Bailey is growling at him, yet the jumps and kisses continue unabated. Abby has her mouth set in a permanent grimace, and Rocky runs toward her, tail wagging, seemingly ignorant. How I wish that I could be oblivious to the contempt or criticism of the rest of the world; how I wish that my self esteem was such that nothing could shake my belief that everyone ought to like me if only I persist in being myself. How wonderful it must be to be completely oblivious to such negativity.
After Colin was born, Rocky fell from him position as center of my world, and I began to suspect that, just perhaps, Rocky was just a dog. Rocky noticed this neglect. It was hard not to. Now Colin lay in the place on my lap that used to be occupied by Rocky. I would have thought this would have made Rocky jealous of Colin or resentful of him, but this has not been the case at all. Instead, Rocky showers Colin with kisses and wants to snuggle beside him. Far from being angry, he sees Colin as a new playmate and member of our pack. I do not think I would have responded so lovingly if I were in Rocky’s place.
One of Rocky’s favorite past times is to ransack the bathroom garbage can, extract all tissues, and then tear them up into little bits and scatter them across the couch. My feelings on this behavior have been made clear, I believe. I’m pretty sure there’s no ambiguity when I tell him he’s a bad dog for a good ten minutes and then send him into time out by shutting him in one of our rooms. Despite these consequences, each time I accidentally leave the bathroom door open, there he is enjoying a session of nibble–the-tissues, trash-the-couch. A few weeks ago I walked out to see him engrossed in this activity, and immediately his ears dropped, his tail fell, and he looked at me with overwhelming sadness. I can only conclude, then, that he knew this behavior was forbidden, weighed the consequences, and determined that all joy derived from eating the tissues outweighed any possible punishment. How often I want to please others so badly that I lose sight of our own desires. Not so for Rocky. He knows what he wants and does it and, again, because he is confident the world loves him, he doesn’t fear that I will punish him and never forgive him. He’s certain I’ll continue loving him no matter what he does. I wish I had the courage to do whatever I wanted, even when I knew others around me disapproved.
In fact, Rocky is so confident that, after committing a transgression, there are moments when I am persistently telling him he is a bad dog, waving my finger in his face, and he wags his tail, unconcerned. I continue with my tirade, waiting for the tail to slip between his legs as it should, but his happiness is unshakeable. This infuriates me; I can’t lie, but I think it awes me as well. How can anyone persist so doggedly (I couldn’t resist) in his happiness, care so little what other people think or say, be so certain others should love him?
I know that what I attribute to confidence may really be that my little puppy is spoiled and believes the world revolves around him. Maybe that’s why I’m jealous, however. Maybe I wish that just a little more often, I put all concerns for others aside, and allowed the world to revolve around me, but then I would have to be as easy to forgive as a fluffy, white puppy.
After he arrived, I sent an email to my friends and family announcing his adoption, attaching a picture. A few of them congratulated me on the birth of my baby, noting they hadn’t known I was pregnant. I shudder to think why my friends would think me capable of afflicting a human baby with the above name. I don’t like to think about what this says about me.
Rocky is a white, fluffy, bischon frise, and I am his proud mother. I believe everything he does is irresistible, and I am puzzled by how anyone can pass him, see his smiling puppy face and happily wagging tail, and not exclaim aloud about his surpassing cuteness. Few people do resist this temptation, I might add.
The more I get to know Rocky, the more I admire him, and the more I learn from him. I can think of several life lessons I’ve learned from him.
For instance, he never holds a grudge; his forgiveness is immediate and absolute. Like most dogs, he detests baths. He struggles to escape even when he’s covered in soap and water and his resistance is clearly futile. Yet, when the bath is finished, he speeds happily around the house, celebrating his release, licking me repeatedly. I was the cause of his torture session, yet he loves me and invites me to join in his finally-the-bath-is-over-euphoria. I’m pretty sure I don’t forgive others as easily. In fact, I think people have done lesser things to me, and I haven’t forgotten.
Rocky loves every dog he meets. When we visit my parents, he is so excited to play with their two dogs. Neither dog likes him, however. Abby, the sheltie, snaps at him, bares her teeth, runs when he approaches her, and generally makes her feelings known. Bailey, the golden retriever, is more tolerant, but even he lets out a low growl now and then. Rocky somehow doesn’t notice this antipathy and proceeds to initiate play with both of them, persisting in his belief that the world loves a white, fluffy puppy. Sometimes Rocky is jumping up to kiss Bailey on the mouth while Bailey is growling at him, yet the jumps and kisses continue unabated. Abby has her mouth set in a permanent grimace, and Rocky runs toward her, tail wagging, seemingly ignorant. How I wish that I could be oblivious to the contempt or criticism of the rest of the world; how I wish that my self esteem was such that nothing could shake my belief that everyone ought to like me if only I persist in being myself. How wonderful it must be to be completely oblivious to such negativity.
After Colin was born, Rocky fell from him position as center of my world, and I began to suspect that, just perhaps, Rocky was just a dog. Rocky noticed this neglect. It was hard not to. Now Colin lay in the place on my lap that used to be occupied by Rocky. I would have thought this would have made Rocky jealous of Colin or resentful of him, but this has not been the case at all. Instead, Rocky showers Colin with kisses and wants to snuggle beside him. Far from being angry, he sees Colin as a new playmate and member of our pack. I do not think I would have responded so lovingly if I were in Rocky’s place.
One of Rocky’s favorite past times is to ransack the bathroom garbage can, extract all tissues, and then tear them up into little bits and scatter them across the couch. My feelings on this behavior have been made clear, I believe. I’m pretty sure there’s no ambiguity when I tell him he’s a bad dog for a good ten minutes and then send him into time out by shutting him in one of our rooms. Despite these consequences, each time I accidentally leave the bathroom door open, there he is enjoying a session of nibble–the-tissues, trash-the-couch. A few weeks ago I walked out to see him engrossed in this activity, and immediately his ears dropped, his tail fell, and he looked at me with overwhelming sadness. I can only conclude, then, that he knew this behavior was forbidden, weighed the consequences, and determined that all joy derived from eating the tissues outweighed any possible punishment. How often I want to please others so badly that I lose sight of our own desires. Not so for Rocky. He knows what he wants and does it and, again, because he is confident the world loves him, he doesn’t fear that I will punish him and never forgive him. He’s certain I’ll continue loving him no matter what he does. I wish I had the courage to do whatever I wanted, even when I knew others around me disapproved.
In fact, Rocky is so confident that, after committing a transgression, there are moments when I am persistently telling him he is a bad dog, waving my finger in his face, and he wags his tail, unconcerned. I continue with my tirade, waiting for the tail to slip between his legs as it should, but his happiness is unshakeable. This infuriates me; I can’t lie, but I think it awes me as well. How can anyone persist so doggedly (I couldn’t resist) in his happiness, care so little what other people think or say, be so certain others should love him?
I know that what I attribute to confidence may really be that my little puppy is spoiled and believes the world revolves around him. Maybe that’s why I’m jealous, however. Maybe I wish that just a little more often, I put all concerns for others aside, and allowed the world to revolve around me, but then I would have to be as easy to forgive as a fluffy, white puppy.
