In many ways, being a puppy parent is like being a parent, but with far less responsibilities. In our training class, we were referred to as “puppy parents” or “dog parents”, and when I picked Franklyn up from the groomers, she said, “Is that Franklyn’s daddy?” as he jumped around excitedly with his cute new haircut.
A small dog and a baby are similar in size and both super cute. They just want to cuddle up in their parent’s arm, or on a blanket. And then they want to see the world. Run around and play and then sleep. I may be biased when I write that my little pupperino, Franklyn, is the cutest dog ever. Just like a baby, people like to proclaim this on the internet. And share photos of.
Franklyn is a mix of a Yorkie and a Bichon, called a Yoshon. Franklyn is the only Yoshon I’ve ever seen. Bichon’s are the 19th century French circus dogs, so Franklyn likes to perform and is very social (he also has long legs and can jump like a mountain goat). At training, the teacher often referred to him as a “pimp” or “little pimp”. He loves other dogs, all sizes, and if he could just run in a field all day with other dogs, occasionally nose deep in butthole, he’d be in heaven. People, unless he has met them 3-5 times, he just wants to smell, which proves awkward on walks. He seems excited and wants to smell the human, but when they try and pet him—the small, cute dog—he moves away, like, “Why do you think I want you to pet me? Just because I want to smell you and seem happy, God!” He’s very expressive, and will huff and look so sad with his cutie Yorkie face to get his way. I woke up to him the other night excitedly chewing his “bully stick”, which is a smelly foot long stick he loves to chew that smells like a mild fart, right on my chest as I slept on my back. I have no idea how long he had been there, but it was adorable and I petted him and cuddled with him.
Like a baby, a dog puts everything in its mouth. Like the piece of pepperoni by the bench in the park that a vegetarian homeless person must have pulled off their pizza. We tried to stop him, but he was fine. And paper, they just shit that out. Plastic, Jesus, that too. Chasing the dog with something in his mouth, now a game to him, trying to “trade” for a “treat”, and he always lives, but there is the fear.
Also like a baby, you can bathe them in the sink. Baby talk them, and clean up their poop and potty train them. Side note: picking up a fresh poop with a plastic bag in the cold snow, I came to realized how hot shit really is. Comically warm. I’m betting body temperature.
Walking through the grocery store with Franklyn, 8.4 lbs and a little longer than a foot, cradled in my arms like a football, his chest, baby like, held firmly and safely in my arms, (I believe it is okay for me to take a dog in places as long as I hold him football-esque, but I’m not sure and have had some anxiety regarding, but one evening I saw a hippy woman with a large Collie-like dog on a leash in the vegetable aisle.) I saw a man with his wife and two children, holding his baby to his chest somewhat similar to me holding Franklyn, though I doubt he was high.
I take Franklyn places, and he likes to party.
I like to walk to the coffee shop, breakfast burrito spot, grocery store or liquor store. He wants and expects to go. At Walgreens, he sat patiently on my lap and ate the treat the pharmacist had given him, and looked around.
But I can, literally, take him with me to party, and you definitely shouldn’t do that with a baby. My BFF lives a few blocks from me, and we like to ‘dab’, play the Tiger Woods golf video game, and drink quality beers. Simply party. And Franklyn wants to party. He’s down for the walk to the liquor store. He loves it. The liquor store proprietors like dogs because drinkers like dogs and walk dogs and get beers. I have actually seen a baby in a liquor store before. A dad holding one of those baby holder-plastic baskets getting some beer. But it seemed legitimate, he wasn’t parting yet. Then my friend and I play Tiger Woods golf, and the dog and the cat play. After a while, the little pupperino, though still having a good time, would look overly stoned from second-hand smoke, and have the cat stalking and attacking him, and look at the cat like, “Dude, chill cat! I’m too stoned for that.” And he’d sit on my lap with an over excited smile, and you can’t do that with a baby.
But Franklyn likes to party. He loves it.
Though it’s not all exaltation from trainers at Pet Smart and mellow journeys to the liquor store, there’s also frustration, like when he took my pen when I was writing the other day. I had just gotten up for another cup of coffee, and when I returned the pen was gone, but it took me a moment to realize. I played a game of “trade” with him via treat, but he ran away, hitting the pen against a table leg, and I thought the pen jabbed into him, and may have hurt him, but he was fine. He ran into the bedroom with it, and once I had it back, he had destroyed the tip. He kills pens. The tip is like the neck he would snap. I felt like mildly crying while chasing him because I thought he was hurt.
My fiancé says we need to watch Cesar Millan, the dog whisperer. She remembered him while we watched an episode of South Park spoofy him, and I agreed and have agreed. We’ve yet to watch it.
She also said, “Franklyn’s the best thing that’s ever happened to us.”
I didn’t say anything, but looked in agreement. It was Sunday, after he graduated his intermediate training class and we were putting away laundry on a sunny afternoon. It seemed too much even to verbally agree with her because I felt so strongly the truth of it.
He’s the cutie pupperino.