Mom |

Dog Mom

Scout the Dog — Thu, 06 May 2010 10:48:12 +0000

Originally published May 2009

You don’t call yourself my mom and I’m not your daughter, but you call me your girl. With each walk we take, each ball you throw for me, each gentle touch and pat, you’re my girl too.

Remember me? This little puppy you took into your house and made me a home. You cared for me like a child, doggy-style.

And yes, I peed on the carpet. You thought I’d never get potty-trained, but we did it.

And you don’t call yourself my mom.

You taught me how to behave properly and be polite and I know that took some doing.

Remember our off-leash walks in the wooded dog park, where I would eat anything and everything? Even poop? You made it clear that was not acceptable. But we would return there, sometimes twice a day, because we both loved it and you knew I could learn.

And you don’t call yourself my mom.
You took me to puppy class and socialized my fuzzy self with the other clueless pups. The best part was after the business end of the lessons, we’d have free play. You’d laugh the loudest at all the playful fur flying and say my name with a grin. You were proud – I could feel it.

And you don’t call yourself my mom.

Now, puppyhood is over and I’m older than you are (if you use the doggy math.) We still walk in the wooded dog park (no more poop picnics), still socialize with other dogs and you still laugh the loudest at my antics and say my name with a grin.

All I can woof is “Thanks Mom!”

Dedicated to all the pet “moms” out there.
Happy Mother’s Day!

The Heart of a Chessie

Scout the Dog — Thu, 04 Feb 2010 15:07:29 +0000

That is the only photo I have of my mom, BB, but you see where I get my good looks. It’s unusual for dog offspring to have contact with their mothers after the infant puppy stage. The Dog Mom does her job, does it well and then she bounds on with her human family. I saw my mom only one more time when I was about ten months old. I was all legs and panting and energy. And BB wanted absolutely nothing do to with my shenanigans. She had her family and I had mine.

Most dogs are tough. Chessies are probably one of the toughest. Pain, fatigue and injury all take a back seat to the love for our family, the love of a swim and just the love of life. That’s why, when my mom started limping a few months ago, the vet prescribed anti-inflammatory meds and she was on her way. It was her only symptom. Who knew how much she was hurting? After a few weeks, her humans began to be concerned. Tests began and that’s when they found the cancer.

BB passed away on Tuesday. She had a great life and her family cared and loved her very much. I don’t know if she had been a different breed, if they would have discovered her illness sooner. But that is the heart of a Chessie — strong, stubborn and full of love.

Motherhood

Scout the Dog — Sat, 09 May 2009 02:32:51 +0000

You don’t call yourself my mom and I’m not your daughter, but you call me your girl. With each walk we take, each ball you throw for me, each gentle touch and pat, you’re my girl too.

Remember me? This little puppy you took into your house and made me a home. You cared for me like a child, doggy-style. And yes, I peed on the carpet. You thought I’d never get potty-trained, but we did it. And you don’t call yourself my mom.

You taught me how to behave properly and be polite and I know that took some doing. Remember our off-leash walks in the wooded dog park, where I would eat anything and everything? Even poop? You made it clear that was not acceptable. But we would return there, sometimes twice a day, because we both loved it and you knew I could learn. And you don’t call yourself my mom.

You took me to puppy class and socialized my fuzzy self with the other clueless pups. The best part was after the business end of the lessons, we’d have free play. You’d laugh the loudest at all the playful fur flying and say my name with a grin. You were proud – I could feel it. And you don’t call yourself my mom.

Now, puppyhood is over and I’m older than you are (if you use the doggie math.) We still walk in the wooded dog park (no more poop picnics), still socialize with other dogs and you still laugh the loudest at my antics and say my name with a grin. All I can woof is “Thanks Mom!”