Puppy Life

This picture is old, but I love it.  He's LOTS bigger now.

Chewie, my Great Pyrenees puppy, is a challenge.  I love him, but some days I sort of want to drop-kick him. That sort of challenge.  Case in point:  I just had to stop writing to yell, "What the hell have you got," run over and take something plastic/electronic and inappropriate away from him.  He's now barking at one of the cats again, a habit I'm breaking him of with the use of an aluminum pie pan.  (Just.  Don't.  Ask.)

This is Puppy Life.  It's been so long since I've had a puppy or even a young dog around that I have forgotten what it's like.  It's a constant circus of clean up, run around, take away, hide, and throw out because it's destroyed.  Even more so than with a normal puppy with him because he's so freaking SMART.  It's not like he's a dumb animal; he's a terribly, terribly clever one.  If he sees something he wants, you can't even hide it from him.  He watches, notes where you put it, and then goes and gets it for himself later when you're out of the picture with a song in his heart and a cheerful, toothy little grin on his snow-white face.

There's also the fact that he is physically large.  He's only about five months old right now, and he's already about thirty pounds.  He's almost as tall as my pit bull.  He's on his way to being three feet tall and one hundred pounds when he hits maturity.  He's built like a football player, all shoulders and chest, lean muscle.  His favorite tactic is to walk up to things and smack them with his giant feet, objects, doors, other dogs, my cats (who loathe him), me...  He thinks this game is AWESOME.  The things he paw-punches, usually not so much.  Even Roux, my pit, sort of looks at him with a thinning patience sometimes, and she's the queen of Rock and Roll playing.

It's good that she's here, though, because the two of them do throw each other on the floor with such violence that stuff rattles on the shelves.  There's a neverending stream of snarling nonsense when they get going.  The cats sit on the backs of chairs and couches and watch, and I keep thinking that for them, this must be some form of modern day feline gladiatorial game.  I am almost certain they're silently saying, "One of you just KILL, KILL, KILL."  They always look disappointed when there's no bloodshed....

Chewie can be exceptionally sweet, though.  He follows me from room to room.  I can't decide whether he is herding me or protecting me, but I'll take it either way.  His breed is known for its guarding traits, and where I live and since I live alone, that's kind of nice.  Even when we're outside and all the other dogs have abandoned me, Chewie stays.  I'm hoping with continued instruction, his intelligence and sweetness will be the things that outlive this puppy phase.  I do not think I can handle one hundred pounds of frothing white insanity knocking me down every morning and then grinning at the resultant chaos, and I'm almost sure that the feline ninja association will take matters into their hands to prevent that as well.