I have a long and sordid history with dogs beginning when I was just a year old and my mother took me to a friend's house for a visit. Said friend had a very randy Dachshund who was not at all immune to my prolific charms. He promptly mounted my ass, thereby scarring me for life and instilling in me a long-term fear of any canine. Tracker--the German shepherd pup above and the newest member of my family--isn't the first dog I've invited into my life, but the trust issues run ever so deep this time. It's not just myself that I have to be concerned with. I have four little ones, all under the age of eight. And he's going to be a very big dog with herding instincts whose breed accounts for 44% of all bite cases (most involving children, of course).
The husband brought him home in a torrential downpour of rain, calling me several times during the hour long drive to tell me all the little things that made Tracker the best dog ever. I reminded the husband to let the pup have a turn around the front yard to empty his bladder and bowels before he entered the house. After all, I'd spent the entire day cleaning every square inch because apparently bringing home a puppy is enough to incite the full-on nesting instinct in me. But when the husband pulled up, I watched him carry a little ball of fur all the way from the car to the house, never setting him down once. In comes the husband, in comes the pup.
"Did you let him go po--" Before the sentence is finished, I feel a warm puddle form on my bare foot.
Oh yes. He'll fit right in.
Wishing you all the merriest of Beltanes!