Identity Crisis!

I’m slowly getting used to sleeping with a dog let loose near my bed.
But enough about me—I think Bruce must be undergoing a severe identity crisis now. We call him by various names, and V. thinks that calling his name in baby-ese will somehow endear him—so he calls him “Bloosie,” “Bloosh,” “Blues Clues” (a very famous kids’ show, in my ever-expanding “useless pieces on information” folder) and anything weird that starts with a “B” sound.

Not to be outdone, I have christened him something ever further from his real name—Ambuli. Don’t ask me why—I just blurted it out one day, and it seems to have stuck. What’s more, my parents-in-law have taken to the name too. Of course, there’s the usual derivatives of Ambuli—Ambuja, Ambuls, Bulls, Ambu, Jambu, et al.

My f-i-l has somehow seen his grandson in Bruce. So he calls him Govind Bhashyam! Hopefully, that won’t stick—can’t imagine the kid (they live in the U.S.) coming home to see a dog with his name!

And here we are, complaining that he doesn’t listen to us—he might, if we settle on a name for him!

Bruce Almighty!

Seriously, if it's like this for a dog, I wouldn't mind living a dog's life at all!

• So, Bruce (the name is set now) is so used to the AC, that my usually hesitant father-in-law keeps the AC running longer than usual in the afternoon and at night.
• V. cleans his susoo and poo-poo without even wincing, while he'd make all sorts of excuses to avoid cleaning the bathroom at home.
• And of course, my ma-in-law, who is a total cleanliness freak, doesn't crane her neck at an angle to spot any dirt or dust on the floor.
• Also, usually reticent people come over and talk to us during those rare moments B. does decide to take a walk.
• I voluntarily take my tea with me when I walk him; earlier, I would throw tantrums when anyone so much as spoke to me during my sacred tea-time.
  
  Oh, and here's the funniest thing: V. tells B., who thinks it's the ultimate torture to leave the comfort of the AC room, except to eat, "If you only eat and sleep like this without any exercise, you'll become fat and bulky. It's not healthy, lazybones!"
  
  Hahahahaha!

Teething Troubles

Here’s the thing—we got a puppy recently. Am quite excited. He’s a 2-month-old Alsatian we call Bruce.
That’s one of V.’s long-term dreams turn into reality. I think the other is to be a champion at bridge.
In any event, this jumpy, cuddly creature is the cutest thing on earth—when he’s sleeping! He’s sometimes cute when he’s not sleeping—more specifically, when he’s biting someone else (he’s supposedly teething), and when it’s not 3 a.m.!
But seriously, if my parents-i-l want us to want children, they could not have conjured up a worse trailer. Bruce is not toilet trained yet, and insists on peeing and pooping in the kitchen. We take him for long walks during which he admires the views and the sounds around him, and then promptly come home to poop in the kitchen!
Now I’m not one of those who go “Awwwwwwwww!” on seeing a cute dog. I like to see them, preferably from a distance, even more preferable if there’s a partition between me and the dog.
But in one of those many compromises that you make instinctively (only to regret at leisure) as part of this agreement called marriage, I accepted the concept of a dog in the house. I also understand why someone’s scared of dogs, or refuses to enter a house when a dog’s in it (am –or is it ‘was’—one of those people). It’s been quite an effort to get over my idea that animals and people belong in different habitats.
This is not about to turn into a blog entry detailing how I started loving dogs, and how God has created all creatures bright and beautiful.
When Bruce first came to our house, I tried getting him to play with me. After all, I quite fancied myself as the ‘more lovable’ person, be it dogs or humans. But Bruce knew that I was trying too hard, or so it seemed.
That night, he seemed very sad. I felt sad for him too, for having left his family in Orissa, and coming into a house where the people were all strange.
Then, one day, when I was petting him, he wanted to bite my hands (those damn teeth again), and I withdrew my hands quite suddenly. He barked—his very first angry bark, for me.
And my old ideas returned. After all, they do act on instinct, no matter how much intelligence we bestow upon them, no?
And then, I started noticing that it meant at least a 30% increase in chores—getting his food ready, cleaning up after him, running after him, and sleeping in constant fear of being bitten.
The silver lining? Kids, who I thought will not have any inhibitions, also seem scared of him :)
He’s cute when he looks up with those forlorn eyes, but when he barks, especially at the broomstick which he’s convinced has a life of its own, it’s quite funny. And scary. Perhaps mine is the fear of the uninitiated. Perhaps it’s the truth.
In the meantime, I’m trying to savour the moments we have with Bruce. As V. says, he is what we all hope to be—true to his feelings.