The Midlife

You would think that a dog named Pickles would be full of just humor and whimsy. And you would be wrong about my pug, Pickles, named after my daughter’s favorite food. He’s a menace and a destroyer of dreams, too.

Pickles joined our family back in October. He’s less of a quarantine puppy and more of an early Christmas gift for our girl. He’s been to Pet Smart’s six-week training class: successfully completed and totally disregarded. He’s chewed up our dining room chairs (Exhibit A, below).

He’s even managed to scratch our freshly painted bedroom door as retaliation for not letting him sleep with us.

I note this as Exhibit B (below).

He has scratched up my arms and taken many a bite at my big toes. He’s 21 pounds of goofball-ish fury. And I fear it’s too late to have him returned for store credit.

He does have his fine moments, I’ll add. He has the softest black fur and seems to love sitting up against me on the couch in the mornings, while I wake up with my morning coffee. But I have to have a mug in one hand and his head in the other, while lightly stroking. He brings us a great deal of laughter each day with his sweet face and keen ability to almost knock me over when I’m trying to attach his leash for a dog walk.

On occasion when his fierce tugs cause his leash to drop, he quickly runs to grab the handle in his mouth and begins walking himself. Much like his slobbery teeth grasping tight to the handle, Pickles has an equally firm hold on our hearts – for better or worse.