The dog days

"If you knew what it would be like when we got Cooper, would you go back and change your mind?" Paul asks, searching my face with his big eyes.

"Oh ho ho," I say. "Best not ask me that."

Paul was referring to the chocolate labradoodle we brought home six weeks ago. It would be him, my most sensitive son, who would ask, not that my struggle with our pet hasn't been evident.

Yes, we've done it again, despite our two times failing at pet ownership. I still burn with shame when I think of surrendering first Rocky, our bearded dragon (if you ever think of getting one, seriously ponder the commitment it takes to have a pet that eats live food; I can still conjure the smell of reeking, fetid crickets), and then our rescue dog, Finn. My guilt probably never will subside, but shame is kind of useless, not to mention damaging, so I'm trying to let it go.

When we decided keeping Finn was untenable because of the way he behaved around the kids, I swore there was no way we'd ever attempt it again, much less nine short months after the painful day that we returned Finn to the shelter.

I'll never forget Paul's devastation. If you ever need to manufacture tears for some reason, imagine an 8-year-old boy wracked with sorrow but still comforting his crying mom, saying that it when it was time to say goodbye to Finn, he'd shake his paw one last time and say, "So long, buddy."

"You just haven't found the right dog yet," friends and family would tell us. Um, no. Sorry I'm out.

It was Mark who first brought up the idea again. We both really are dog people, and we couldn't let go of wanting our kids to have the experience of pet ownership. I was incredulous at first, but gradually I warmed to the idea.

We thought and planned carefully. As in the past, I had little interest in getting a puppy; however, we also reasoned that much of what went wrong with Finn had to do with the fact that he was 6 months old when we got him, and his critical socialization period had passed. Adults can cope with difficult dog traits but kids not as easily.

If we wanted to do this right, we'd need to survive the hardship of raising a puppy in order to have a chance at having the kind of dog we wanted. Tentatively, we began to look at labradoodle puppies, wanting a hypoallergenic dog.

We decided that if we did it, we'd surprise the boys. This part was all fun and smiles, imagining the boys shocked, joyous faces and all the sweet puppy snuggles. "It'll be an investment of time, energy and money," Mark and I sagely reminded each other.

We settled on a breeder whose chocolate labradoodle and yellow labradoodle had recently birthed litters of seven and 12 puppies (sweet Jesus!), respectively. We sent our deposit and were No. 7 in line for picking.

We knew what we wanted: a cream female. We were so excited. Mark and I talked of little else in hushed tones for weeks and could barely wait to meet our puppy.

When the day finally arrived, we quickly discovered that the lone cream female available had both a looser coat (not good for allergies) and a feisty personality. We hastily changed our minds and considered other options. When the husband and wife took out a chocolate boy who was declared the husband's favorite for his mellow personality, we decided pretty quickly.

We'd name him Cooper and pick him up in two weeks. During that time, I felt a mixture of excitement and anxiety. Truly, I mostly focused on the sweet part of surprising the boys, though on some level I also knew that the upheaval would undo me for a bit.

Finally D-day arrived. Mark and I are perpetually, casually thinking about putting our house on the market, The boys know this and beg us to give up the idea. We picked them up from school and told them we were going to look at a house.

We were a little nervous that Ben might be on to us, but he was furious, especially as our drive stretched on. As we pulled up to the house, Paul clearly began to warm to the idea when the breeders' horses came into view.

Finally, we went into the house to claim our dog. Our story worked too well, and the boys' prevailing sentiment was puzzlement rather than joy. Quickly, though, smiles spread across their faces.

In his first days home, I was still excited. After that, I remained game for a bit. Inevitably, though, as I knew it would, the reality and implications of our decision began to set in, and I developed what I can only describe as something akin to postpartum depression.

I felt on edge and tied down. Home all day, I felt the burden of caring for yet another creature with many needs. The need to maintain constant vigilance when he was out of his kennel wore on me.

Sure, I liked some of it. He frolicked in the sunshine of our backyard as I looked on. He played sweetly and gently with the boys and my 1-year-old nephew.

I'm quickly snapped out of my reverie with every challenging incident. He really is pretty calm, but a couple times a day, he's hyper, and during these times I laugh bitterly at being duped into believing we'd gotten a "mellow" wonder dog.

He's a baby, I keep reminding myself with every outburst and accident. I've realized recently that the hard part with puppies is that really they're not like sweet, helpless babies at all; they're like 3-year-olds. Yes, they're adorable, but just like a 3-year-old child, if you turn your back for too long, you need to worry that he'll have an accident, bite someone, or put something he shouldn't have in his mouth.

With a child, most parents have a natural instinct to nurture, but I'm having a hard time finding that with Cooper. We share the same wavy brown hair, but beyond that he and I don't share the easy connection the boys and I do. A lot of times I feel little toward him but obligation and responsibility.

Right now I'm kind of going through the motions and looking to make it through his puppyhood. I suppose I'll miss his puppy days someday. There are few things quite as adorable as watching his chubby little body as he runs, but right now I long to be past it.

My apathy shames me. There it is again. So many friends and acquaintances love their pets madly, and I'm just not there yet.

We plunged headlong into something hoping for happiness. We'll get there. Sometimes love takes time. He'll be a good dog. It'll be an investment of time. And energy. And money. And until we get there, I'll wait, patiently at times, exasperatedly at others.