Let's face it - he's one of us.

It's funny how we become entangled in the way we live our lives. I was watching a community of groundhogs (that's the same thing as a gopher, ya know) pop in and out of their holes and realized how much like my bucktoothed rodent friends I have become. I pop off the couch at various times during the day, graze around the kitchen or maybe the living room coffee table, nibble on some chips, then dive back on the couch when there's any sign of danger - danger being the likelihood that someone is about to steal my place on the couch.

And so it goes - jobs, hobbies, patterns, ruts, and habits lead us down their familiar paths and lock us in.

But every once in a while you do something that jolts you, that changes things up- for better or worse - and starts rewriting the pages of the life you weren't even thinking about editing because you weren't paying attention. That decision was made for our family by my beautiful wife this February. You have to understand one important attribute of my wife to appreciate her fully: she always gets what she wants, even if she doesn't want it. The most recent and significant realization of this occurred when she went on a three-month spousal barrage in which she requested, whined, researched, eye-batted, and pouted her way into a cute little puppy for a Valentine's Day present. I had to hand it to her. We got a Puggle for free. She went online and found a lady in a town an hour and a half away who was giving one away. Of course, she didn't supply us with a picture because she had "too much else goin' on to be postin' pitchers up on the intranet."

The ride there was hysterical. We didn't tell the kids what we were doing, just in case. We laughed through our apprehensions about the whole thing:
"What if it's only got three legs or a third eye or something?"
"She doesn't even know our names. We'll just ask where the bathroom is and get outta there."

But of course he was precious and perfect, and my wonderful wife came out smelling like roses (and Puggle after the hour and a half ride home with it on her lap.)

Preston Pugglesworth III joined our family that day. He was that spontaneous jolt of life-altering, rut-eliminating energy that started a new chapter in our family novel. In fact, he re-wrote it single-pawedly. He was cute beyond belief and so tiny you could hold him in the palm of your hand. My wife had me in the palm of her hand, and now she had a puppy there too.

But then the chapter took an interesting turn; the plot thickened; the main character began revealing his inner self to the audience.

Preston started growing up.

His cute little puppy yelps turned into obnoxious Beagle howls at the unsuspecting neighbors. His puddles and piles began popping up all over the house. His midnight pouncings totally rearranged our sleep habits. And he ate his poop.

Coprophagia is not, contrary to popular belief, an island resort off the coast of Italy. It's the scientific term for canine poop-eating; and what began as a cute little puppy exploring the makings of his little innards turned into a daily nightmare of a larger dog scarfing down his turds almost as they came out his rear end. It was quite disgusting. Cutest dog ever. Grossest, most disgusting dog ever. Yes, the reality of dog ownership was taking over.

Several months later, I sit here alone on the couch while Preston spends the night at the animal hospital, recovering from the neutering he received today. Snipped and clipped, he'll return home tomorrow. But tonight we had a taste of the old life, the pre-Preston life of luxury and ease, clean carpets and full nights of sleep.

I can't help but miss the little guy, though. Yes, we have to shy away from his cute little puppy kisses to the face, for fear of getting "the hook" (our euphamistic way of announcing to others that hookworm has already been successfully vanquished once in our household.) Yes, we have to smell some of the grossest, most disgusting farts we've ever smelled as he falls asleep on the ottoman and his bowels relax. Yes, we have to shield all garbage in triple-secure, NASA-grade trash containers. Yes, we have to follow him outside at 5am with a hand shovel to pick up his poop as it hits the ground so he won't eat it immediately. Yes, we have to listen to roll his water dish around when he's thirsty. And yes, come tomorrow, I'm sure we'll be watching him bang into the furniture with a cone around his neck because he refuses to leave his stitches alone.

He's a humongous pain in the neck. But he's our pain in the neck. I miss his little paws stretching out to touch my leg, just to make sure I'm still there. I miss watching him crawl under the bed to go night-night. He's disgusting, gross, and incredibly high maintenance. But he's cute, loveable, and flawed; and let's face it- he's one of us.