“Hiring a dog is supposed to cure my anxiety – instead it made it worse”

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The idea gained strength when I befriended a poodle at a local pub, leaning his chin against my thigh while I dined on Sipsmith and slenderness. I felt an ocean of love for such uncomplicated affection. Eventually we gave a sensor for our own dog.

Our first hope was to adopt a dog whose elderly owner had sadly died. Fully grown, fully trained, he was a maltipoo (a breed I had never heard of) and practiced magnetic traction.

I wrote an honest email. I held my breath. Heard nothing. Later, it turned out that my message went straight to spam, as Tess (the one from the D’Urberville family) posted a letter to Angel under the door, but accidentally slipped it under the rug. Our opportunity is gone.

When we saw the mirror image of the puppy while shopping, we asked the owner and one thing led to another, culminating on that important January morning with a little Eadie, Paul, who was fatherly waiting by the car, and I stopped on the stairs houses like the old Duchess of Cambridge, who wears neither postpartum hair dryers nor designer gowns as a tribute to the late Princess Di.

Our kitchen was ready for the dog. bowls. Brushes. The bed. Children’s door. But instead of the often suggested wire box, they would turn out to be elegant with a padded cabinet – think of the G Plan with the weight of a grand piano. Eadie ignored it. As for the door, it was so unexpectedly mini that we had to stretch the net on the crossbars to prevent it from slipping through.

That night when Paul returned to Northern Ireland, our strategy was to get Eadie to sleep in the kitchen, so when I settled her in, I locked the door and retreated to clean the 24-hour plane from my face.

Everything was quiet. Don’t beep. Until I figured out why. She sat at my dressing table and watched the wash. It turned out that there was a commando-style operation. She pulled the net down, formed a ladder, and climbed the stairs while whistling on the subject of the Great Escape.

Given this technical malfunction and to save the carpet in the bedroom, I lay down on the couch with it. Unfortunately, I let this become a habit.

If I ever left her alone, I would whine and whine until I broke in and got back on the couch, Eadie camped on my head like Davy Crockett’s hat, and I watched Father Brown at 2 a.m. while I was through night tidying up endless peeing and pooping. . Blessed are you, my child. Home training has become crucial. But my efforts were in vain.

The basic idea is to take the puppy out regularly, wait as long as it takes, praise and reward him. However, our time could not be worse. Not only was this one of the wettest winters on record, neighbors began digging an extension. The fences were torn down. Trenches were dug.

When I shivered, Eadie was just researching the leaves while I searched Google for their potential toxicity. It was only when she returned to the house that she was relieved. Rinse (literally) and repeat.

I struggled on, still desperate but now severely disadvantaged and refusing to work. I’m sure you think, ‘It’s just a puppy, for God’s sake’, but I remember describing her as a baby without a diaper on roller skates. She stopped occasionally to chew on something. As Paul’s specifications Thom Browne. We will not talk about these again.

Simple things got complicated. Putting on socks turned into tug of war. I ended up balancing on the bed to get dressed, pull the spiders, and swing while the eight-inch-tall puppy patrolled the perimeter of the blanket.

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