With Great Puppyhood Comes Great Exhaustion

If you want to feel young, get a dog. But if you want to feel old, get a puppy.By Zach Hively

​By Zach Hively

Ryzhik and Hawkeye.

Until we adopted a total stranger into our home, Hawkeye and I both appeared rather sprightly for our ages. He was nine and swam the equivalent of the English Channel that year while chasing tennis balls. I, meanwhile, was as close to 40 as I had ever been, but I did work out twice that summer and cut out sugar for an entire meal. 

So when this particular pup showed up on my feed (one year ten months, all shots up to date, friendly with senior dogs, willing to help around the house), all I did was ‘like’ the picture. Hawkeye and I had a good thing going. I wasn’t going to muck it up over some Insta model. ​

But when this particular pup showed up again two months later, I knew he was either unadoptable or meant to be with us. Or both.

Still, we did our due diligence. Hawkeye and I went to the dog park in a nearby community to meet this orphan. We spent about 12.4 seconds with the dog before I decided, for certain and without Hawkeye’s explicit approval, to make a lifelong commitment to him. 
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At the time, I didn’t think the pup was a puppy, per se. I thought he was merely youthful, weighing in at a dainty seventy pounds—thus, the “little” in his name, signified by the diminutive -k sound at the end of Ryzhik. This was the name given to him by his Russian foster dad without the shelter’s knowledge or consent. 

He (the foster dad, not Ryzhik) fed me much less misinformation than one might expect from someone with a vested interest in pawning this dog off on me: 

• Ryzhik does not destroy furniture. (This is true.)
• ​He is great off-leash (true adjacent)
• and comes when you call him (true except when it’s not), 
• even when there’s a bear on the trail (not yet tested, but dubious).
• He will pull your clothes out of the laundry basket when you’re away (true) 
• but does not destroy them (true except once; long live the buttons on the Henley). 
• He is a lover. (True.) 
• And hey wow, you almost pronounced his name correctly (kind, but untrue)—I will send you the audio link on Google Translate. (True.)

However, there was one great lie.
I cannot fault the Russian for it. He was fed bad intel. 

The lie was this: Ryzhik is not, despite all claims, an adult dog. 
He might be full-grown; he understands two languages better than I understand one, and he can run a 5K without training; yet he is still, in every functional way, a puppy. 

It took both Hawkeye and me until approximately noon that day to acknowledge that we are old men without the exuberance, the spontaneity, and the toothiness of a puppy.

It occurred to me that I’d never been on full-time puppy duty before. My parents never did give me a dog of my very own as a child. Sure, I learned the responsibility of feeding their dogs and cleaning up their dogs’ turds before playing backyard baseball by myself. But I then packed up and went to the other parent’s house for the weekend, granting me a break from responsibilities. 

I had never learned how much energy it takes to wear out a dog-toddler every day of the week without that break—and how much of that energy you lack when that two-year-old doggler wakes you up with a paw to the face, a paw as strong and wide as catcher’s mitt, before the sun rises every single morning—and just why bathrooms have doors in the first place. 

Perhaps I have it easy. I at least stand a full eight inches taller than Ryzhik and can make a Russian “uh-uh” when he forgets not to play tug-of-war with my forearm. But poor Hawkeye is on his level, and Ryzhik often ignores basic dog communication skills like growling, which Hawkeye does a lot because he is learning, perhaps for the very first time, that he has personal boundaries. 

At least they have figured out how to play a civilized game. Hawkeye stands in the center of the yard and growls at Ryzhik like he always does, except Ryzhik instigates the zoomies, and every time he passes by the center, Hawkeye growls and snaps at him again, and Ryzhik rockets off in another direction.

I know for certain that this is a game because it has not drawn any blood. 
Then we come inside, and after repeated attempts to puncture my skin, Ryzhik curls up on the couch and smushes his nose until he wheezes. Hawkeye passes out on the rug at my feet for some goddamn well-earned peace and quiet. 

And me? I freeze, because any errant twitch will ruin the moment.
I cherish these gentler times, all the more precious in my advancing years, as a chance to tend to my scratches and look around for my relocated house shoe and bank what little energy reserves I can.
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Put it all together, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

You know it’s been a great dog day when this moment arrives.