Katherine Taulman Vaughan


Thank you, friends, for the Pomeranian puppy names. I let my little ones pick the name, and after being bitten, chased, and flattened by him, they chose Theodore. They said he looked like he might wear round glasses and a bow tie after he grows into an adult. I pray that happens because I considered naming him “HELLBOY” and entering him in a Fight Club somewhere.

My father raised dogs, but they were outdoor dogs that lived in our kennel. I don’t remember indoor training sessions. When we recently adopted “Theo,” we were happy to have a younger pup for my aging Tinkerbell to play with. How hard could it be to train a pup to live inside? We were dumb and dumber. I didn’t know cute fuzzy Poms could fight so viciously. Theo thought it was playtime, Tinkerbell wanted to rip his throat out. I began thinking that I was too old for a puppy.

After calling me an impatient dog trainer, my husband stepped in on the potty training. “Stepped” is the perfect verb since he entered the “crate room” and stepped in a fresh pile of poopoo, skidded into a big split then sat on poop mountain. I heard the cursing at the other end of the house and creeped into range and watched poop-man removing his pants while escorting Theo outside. We then argued about how to clean the pants: let it coagulate outside in the weather; scrape it off; pressure wash; or throw the soiled britches in the trash. He chose the latter while I took a chew toy outside to throw for Theo for a retrieval lesson. Theodore responded well. He got so excited when I praised him, he bit my hand then raced around my feet, teethed on my ankles, and drew blood. It matched what was dripping from my hand wounds. I knew they were love nips, but then he started humping my calf. That was not good.

Poop-man came upon Theo’s humpty dance, crossed his arms, and smiled, “Yep, that’s my boy.”
I couldn’t resist. “Uh, you were never that fast,” and Theo speeded it up. “And just so you know, Captain Bare Bottom (he hadn’t replaced his pants yet), that action has nothing to do with sex. He’s just overstimulated and excited. It’s a sign of joy. That’s what the book says.”

“Yeah, I remember being pretty joyful too.”

“Shut up and go get me some hydrogen peroxide and band-aids.”

Once poop-man had his pants on, he spent the afternoon in time-out, throwing balls and squeaky toys while I dressed my wounds.

Read my next blog, 06: The Emergency Room and Animal Control