She's about eighteen times bigger than this now.
Her paws are bloody enormous. And usually muddy. And usually on my sofa.
And I love it.
I made the Colonel do the first puppy training class. After all, he's had dogs all his life. And trained them himself, so why would he need someone to tell him what to do? I, on the other hand, had been a confirmed cat lover until May 23rd 2009, when a little Weimeraner puppy crept into my heart and took up residence.
I had stalled as long as I could. I spent several months and a small fortune earlier this year remodelling the kitchen and redecorating the drawing room. The sofas were all recovered in taupe linen and the walls painted a pale yet tasteful Farrow & Ball. A dog, in my opinion, would be smelly, muddy and destructive. The bots and Colonel disagreed.
Continuing to stall, I made the bots write and present a PowerPoint of 'Why We Need to Get a Dog' which featured much clip art of winsome pups and a very complicated poo-picking-up schedule in which we would all play our parts with gusto. The Colonel told me that a Weimeraner wouldn't shed, since it is very short-haired. Also, that they were the most intelligent breed of dog and could therefore be trained to respect my property and probably even appreciate paint charts and picture hanging options. He also pointed out that she would be the exact colour of the sofas, so even a tiny stray hair would be completely invisible.
We sneaked away, he and I, one week day to meet the puppy and be interviewed by the breeder. She startled me somewhat by barking on about 'submissive bitches' but apparently was not referring to me. The puppy we chose wobbled towards us, bright blue eyes shining, from the tangle of limbs and tummies in the barn. Smitten? She was prised out of my arms and I actually cried in the car on the way home. Waiting four weeks until she was old enough to come home with us felt like a lifetime.
When we all went back to get her, the bots had no idea what we were doing; keeping the puppy secret for four weeks just about killed me, but the dawning joy on their faces as they realised we were keeping her and it wasn't just a sick torture I'd dreamed up, was something that will stay with me for ever.
It took two weeks for me to rescind on the not-on-the-sofas rule and just over a month on the no-upstairs-and-DEFINITELY-nowhere-near-the-beds one. The Colonel did the first training class and refused point blank to go back. This is, after all, a former Commanding Officer who had definite views on being reprimanded by a badly-dressed woman with no military training. I went for the second one. After all, how bad could it be? She demanded to know why I had chosen a Weimeraner when I'd never owned a dog before. She walked away in disgust as I got to the Farrow & Ball bit. We tumbled and giggled our way through the class, but were asked not to return as apparently being enchanted and amused by a puppy's disobedience is bad for everyone concerned.
The Colonel now has a rolled-up Property section of the Saturday Telegraph, secured with yards of gaffer tape. He calls it the 'Strumpet Management System.' I'm pretty sure it's for the dog, but he has shaken it at me on a couple of occasions. It'll take more than that to turn me into a submissive bitch.