Part two of the saga of living with a puppy and being middle-aged physically but adolescent mentally…
Maisie is now seven months old, much bigger than I anticipated (my error, not hers) and a tad exuberant. Of course, I expected lively, crazy and mindless frolics, but am I in for a ride!
When we are both awake, things go well. When she is awake and I am asleep, the world slides into chewing, tearing and yanking, depending on what we did during the day. Or didn’t.
Yesterday, Maisie went to the groomer for her second visit. Her coat looked like a bad case of Axminster but it was a positive sign that she was more than happy to be led through the groomer’s door. So far so good, and ninety minutes of free time for me.
Diane, the groomer, I might add, is marvellous and knows that although Maisie is tall, she is a baby still. Maisie’s first visit highlighted Diane’s immense patience as apparently Maisie’s tongue popped into Diane’s mouth at least three times during the washing phase.
Embarrassed.
But it seems that this baby has me fooled. While Maisie willingly jumps up into the bath for the groomer, I lift her in and out of the car. She stands there and waits, giving me the side eye to ascertain why I am not doing the heavy lifting.
