The Puppy Files: My Only Friend

Welcome to yet another edition of The Puppy Files, a series in which I travel down memory lane to when I was an itty bitty little puppy with large gnashing teeth and a bad attitude.

Today's tale is entitled:  My Only Friend.

Me at 5 Months Old

I've said time and time again that I was a troubled puppy: I bit, I jumped, I stole, and was generally miserable to my family (Sister used to coat both her arms in Bitter Apple Spray in an attempt to stop me from grabbing hold of one of them, dropping to the ground, and rolling like an alligator in a death roll--it rarely worked).  Now, because of my misguided ways, I could pretty much guarantee that I'd have at least one, possibly two, family members annoyed at me at any given moment.  I'm ashamed to say that, at the time, this didn't bother me one bit.  I always had a friend waiting in the wings, or, more appropriately, in the backyard.

My friend was a rock.  But not just any rock.  You see, it needed to be the perfect rock--not too big, not too small, rather smooth but just rough enough to get a good grip on it with my teeth.  Once this perfect rock was obtained (I usually found it in Ma's garden...a difficult feat because I was often distracted by Ma yelling at me to get off her pansies and mums), I would grab it in my teeth and go scurrying into the backyard.

Once in the backyard, I either plopped down in the nice cool grass to gnaw on my new friend (I was always very careful not to swallow him) or proudly trotted around while occasionally flinging him up into the air (I got real close to clocking myself upside the head a few times).

I refused to share my rock with anyone.  When someone came into the yard, I'd watch them from a distance, rock clenched firmly in my teeth, afraid that if I got too close to that person he or she might try to take my friend away.  Then again, if that person approached me, I'd either jump up and scurry away from him with the rock in my mouth or roll onto my back in an attempt to distract the interloper with the offer of a belly to rub.

Ma was often witness to my rock obsession and used to joke that if anyone saw me and my rock, they'd think that I was a deprived little puppy.  She said that I looked like a pup who had no nice toys or people to play with and that my only friend was a rock.  This, of course, was completely false.  I had plenty of people to play with (I just couldn't find anyone who appreciated how I played) and tons of toys to rip to shreds.  I just really enjoyed playing with my rock.

As months passed and my bad attitude started to wane, rocks became less important to me.  Still, to this day, if I find a perfect rock in the backyard, I just can't help myself.  I need to pick it up, scurry into the backyard, and prance around with it clenched firmly in my teeth.