There is no psychiatrist in the world like a puppy licking your face.
After the incident of the chicken massacre, everyone kept telling us we needed a dog. This wasn’t to be a cute little lap dog—those needs were met with our cats. This was to be a working dog, and hopefully an asset to our little farm.
Molly took great joy in researching breeds and we had narrowed it down to a few kinds. We had lots of requirements—it needed to be smart and easily trained; one that would be protective, yet not mean; not prone to wander away and cause trouble, yet able to cruise around our land and keep watch over our property; a coat that could stand the hot summer weather, but not shed all over the house. And of course, it should be cute.
A co-worker of Dave’s sent pictures of some border collie puppies that were available. They were certainly cute, and border collies were on our favorites list. But border collies are a high energy dog, in need of both physical and mental outlets—fine for when we had animals for it to work, but what about when it was still a puppy and we only had chickens?
We decided with there being six of us, surely one of us would be able to take the dog for walks. And having an excuse to exercise was a good thing, right? So we took the plunge and decided to get a border collie.
The day I drove to go pick him up, I was very nervous. I would have felt more at ease going to pick up a baby than a puppy. I knew what to do with a baby. We had been watching Cesar Milan “Dog Whisperer” videos from the library to prepare ourselves. I had seen what happened when a dog wasn’t trained right, and I didn’t want to create a monster dog that only we loved! We needed a helper, not a hindrance.
The puppy must have been a little nervous, too, because on the way home, he threw up and then ate it. “Welcome to the world of dogs,” my brother said. What had we gotten ourselves into?