“We’re trying our best”: Unsolicited Advice on Life with Puppies

I liked dogs as a kid; they were fun. But I didn’t adore them, and at no point in my teens or early twenties had I considered making the leap to adopt. Robby, meanwhile, had been fantasizing about dog ownership for over a decade. Shortly after we moved in together, he made it clear that he very much wanted a dog. I didn’t hate the idea, so we got Orion.

Now, we have two dogs: Orion is a year and a half old, and Blue is almost one. I want to say that raising them is like playing chess, where we form and adjust plans in hopes of the best outcome. It’s been more like dodgeball. We try to catch what’s hurled at us, but instead of balls it’s chewing, fighting, barking, general public fear of a 115-pound Blue, and literal shit. Insane amounts of literal shit.

I want to share a collection of our triumphs and missteps, which I think will be helpful for anyone who has a puppy or is considering one. It’s important to note that I am drawing primarily from my own experience and that every dog is different. Blue and Orion are not perfect by any (any) stretch, and Robby and I are not dog professionals. But our dogs are happy and kind, which are the two most important adjectives to describe pets. We really try our best.

Triumph: Dog park.

Taking Blue and Orion to the dog park early and frequently is hands-down the best thing we have done as dog owners. They not only learned to manage the delightful chaos of being greeted by a stampede of larger animals when walking through a gate (a sensation that many dogs react very poorly, and sometimes violently, toward) but learned to not be afraid of other dogs. The result: They aren’t defensive when meeting new people or animals. Safer for everyone.

Additionally, the dog park is one of the only places where dogs can fulfill their needs to bark, dig, and pack with other dogs. They’re allowed to be their animal selves.

Oops: Excited greetings.

On the occasion we left Orion alone in the apartment when he was a nine-pound ball of scruff, we would throw a mini celebration when we returned. We’d swing the door open and crouch down to greet him and sing to him and hold him and tell him he was the best thing in the world. He’d climb on our shoulders and bite our ears. It was adorable.

Now, Orion is a fifty-pound dog who absolutely loses his shit whenever anyone walks through the door. He leaps and paws and tries to lovingly eat people’s faces off. We’re working on it. I wish we had greeted him calmly.

Triumph: Pet-conducive schedule.

The primary reason we felt ready to adopt Orion was twofold: There were two of us to raise him, and we had different schedules. I was waiting tables, and Robby was working nine to five. We didn’t need to abandon a small puppy in an apartment for 7-9 hours per day. This not only made training easier—potty-training goes faster when someone is there to do it—but made his transition from the Humane Society with his siblings to our apartment much smoother.

Oops: Trusting the bag.

When we adopted Blue, a three-month-old mastiff mix, we fed him the amounts prescribed on the dog food bag. Why wouldn’t we? The official-looking number was printed right there on the side.

Blue got fat. Quickly. The vet asked how much we were feeding him. I told her the amount and explained we were following the bag. As the words left my mouth, I realized that the makers of dog food were the last people I should trust when determining my dog’s caloric intake. They want us to burn through bags as quickly as possible. We learned the amount of calories Blue should have been getting, found the nutrition facts for his food online, and did the math.

Just as a point of reference: According to his bag, we should be feeding Blue 7 ½ cups per day. You know how many we actually (and correctly) feed him? Four. And he’s still kind of fat.

Triumph: Pet insurance.

When Robby floated the idea of getting pet insurance, I rolled my eyes. It was another monthly payment we didn’t need, and I doubted they truly covered anything. I ate my words almost instantly. We only have Blue covered—he’s large and accident prone, and Orion is a genetically-hearty, scrappy little mutt. We use HealthyPaws and pay $37 a month for 80% coverage on injuries, illnesses, and a few other ailments. There are certain surgeries that, if Blue needs them in the future, will be covered. Pet insurance has been a huge relief, both mentally and financially.

Oops: Retractable leash.

Orion had one when he was little. He could take longer to sniff at plants while we kept walking, and we could always lock the leash to a shorter length if we needed to. When we decided to leash train him (teach him how to walk on a leash without pulling, which we should have done earlier), he had catching up to do. He was used to being able to wander, which isn’t a good quality when walking crowded streets or trying to get somewhere quickly. Also, dogs can bolt. I have a recurring day-mare (like a daydream, but bad) about Puppy Orion tearing across the street after a squirrel and my hand trying to lock the leash in time.

Triumph: Happy place.

There’s a line between crate training a dog, and just crating them. I’m proud of how we walked it: We made our dogs’ crates their happy places by feeding Blue and Orion inside them, and not leaving them in their crates for long stretches. If we did crate them, we’d give them a toy (I recommend a Kong with peanut butter inside) to reinforce that being in a crate is a calm and okay place to be. Studies show that crating a dog for long periods of time (work day, afternoon trip, etc.) makes the dog feel they’re being punished, and one cited four hours as a maximum limit for crating. A dog training article likened a crate to a baby’s crib: It’s used for napping between activities, and you wouldn’t leave someone in it all day. Blue and Orion now go into their crates voluntarily to sleep, and it’s nice knowing that we have a portable little home for them.

Oops: Chewables.

We completed a few sessions with a dog trainer (which I also recommend) and I once asked him, “How do I stop them from chewing books?”

He said, “They’re puppies. Move your books.”

It was a very obvious point, and one that many won’t agree with: it’s a Band-Aid solution to a larger problem. However, by moving the items they liked to chew and leaving their toys on the ground, it was easier to praise them for playing with their toys, and we lost fewer of our things to chewing.

They still aren’t perfect on this front, which is our fault. If they chew, it’s usually when we’re gone, and it’s tough to discipline a dog an hour after the fact. They’re improving as they age, and we’ve accepted that breaking the chewing habit is a slow process. We would rather come home to a shredded paper bag than leave them in their crates while we’re gone.

Oops: Two.

Every person we love advised against adopting another dog while Orion was still a puppy. While I certainly don’t regret it, I wouldn’t recommend it. At all. Blue was taking cues from Orion, who was in a shitty adolescent phase up until a couple of months ago. Additionally, they didn’t particularly care for each other at first. Orion was older, but Blue was more dominant in nature. This posed issues. Add to that a sudden litany of veterinary problems from both of them, and the six-ish months after we adopted Blue became a strange and financially stressful dystopia. If we ever have two dogs again, we would wait until one of them had been with us for at least two years.

Triumph: Patience.

I’ve used a lot of it. Blue and Orion have chewed on things we loved and gotten into fights, or pushed me to the brink of frustration just by being being two puppies who need attention. I’ve had to breathe and remember two things. First, if they were misbehaving, it was almost always because Robby and I had not properly taught them how to behave. Secondly, the point of having a dog is to make another being happy. Sure, they have enriched my life in more ways than I could possibly thank them for. But having a dog is about creating a joy in another, furrier person.

There were days when Robby would open the door to find me with my face buried in my hands. I hadn’t had time to run that day, or write, and they chewed up a journal while I was at work, and then they got in a fight. I couldn’t leave the apartment without a pit of guilt gathering in my stomach.

He encouraged me to show myself more grace. They would be fine if I left for a couple of hours. They would get used to each other; we would get better at training them.

“We’re doing our best,” he would say. “And they won’t be puppies forever.”