Bad dog.

In the literal and metaphorical sense, J.D. is being a little bitch. She’s chewed through a tried-and-true pair of sandals that cradled my feet like Jesus. She will not see the benefits of outdoor plumbing. And now she’s leapt up, nipping my right index finger and drawing blood.

As an added curtsy, she’s barking her head off in an ever-deepening-yet-still-shrill voice for reasons I can’t dechipher. Maybe she’s bored. Maybe shes tired. Maybe she sees what a fraud of a parent I am.

I used to fancy myself adroit at dog raising. I’ve lived with them all my life, and still retain shards of dog training tips that seem to work.

Or used to. Clearly, I am not the Obi Wan to dogs that Teddy was. He raised the smartest animal I ever saw, Esme. He potty trained her, taught her to sit, even showed her how to fetch, even though he did not know how.

I could use his advice now. Or at least his thick fur, which he was happy to let Esme chew on during her teething phase.

So I let his advice flow over me. Let her bark; she’s learning her first words. Let her chew; she doesn’t yet know the loving nibble. Let her be; she just turned 3 months old (!) today.

And he reminds me from the cloud circuit that I am the one who needs training, not her. Enjoy the newness of the life she brings, he tells me in every photo of the duo I see: One day soon, those hairs will gray, those nips will become naps, and I will remember how, as a puppy, she would sit at the foot of my shower, waiting for me to finish. How, when she’s tired, she preferred to slumber in my lap. How, when I take too long to bathe (which is all the time), she would drag my sweatpants into the living room and sleep on them.

How, when I sit to write at the computer, she curled at my feet, unwilling and uninterested in curling anywhere else.

Like now.

Good dog.