Reagan, and I'm not talking Ronald

I woke up this morning to the sweet, clumsy footsteps of the little lady pictured above. Like most puppies, Reagan stole my heart at first sight. My roommate, Catherine, was dogsitting Reagan for her parents. 

All morning, she was bouncing around the kitchen. Which was probably a good thing because when she sat still her legs slid out from under her on the hardwood floors. She would eat a little bit of food and then run to your feet, begging for attention. I couldn't help but pick her up. She'd lick my face, and I didn't mind her puppy breath one bit. 

My dog, Baxter, will soon be four years old. But, I remember his puppy days. Even when he was teeny-tiny, he looked like an old man with his white beard and puffy eyebrows. He was sweet as can be. My stepmom had taken her dogs to be groomed, and Baxter was the last puppy left from the litter the groomer's dog delivered several weeks before. He was a little sad and lonely, so my stepmom agreed to bring him home to play with her puppies for the day. I also happened to stop by the house that day and needless to say, Bax never returned to the groomer. 

Since then, Baxter has been the perfect companion. He hogs the bed, practically sleeping on top of me. He's kennel trained, but spends most of his days looking out the front door from his spot on the back of the couch. And, around 1 p.m. each day, he gets up to bark ferociously at the mail carrier. 

While things are good now, there are certain parts of his early days that I'd rather not remember. The nightmares of house training, for example. That's why, for at least the time being, I'm perfectly content puppy-sitting rather than puppy owning and training. No matter how cute Reagan's face may be.