Pet's Age
10 Months

Your Pet's Story or Bio
For five years, our daughter mounted an Olympic-style bid to adopt a family dog.

Her guerrilla marketing tactics were creative and duplicitous. Emotional blackmail: I’m an only child. I’m lonely! Bait-and-switch: I’ll do all the walks, pinky promise.

In November, swayed against our better judgment, we bit the bullet.

Nash is an eight-month-old golden retriever-poodle mix. His list of bona fides include: low-to-no shed, family-friendly, eager to please and a good capacity to learn.

That may be true. But he’s also perpetually shaggy, even mere moments after a professional groom. He has more hair tools than I do (slicker, pin comb, fusion oval — whatever that is) and still looks like he’s never met a brush.

When he twitches his Ewok eyebrows, he gives wise and all-knowing vibes. This flinch-and-you’ll-miss-it moment of Zen passes when he sees a sock within paw’s reach. He’s a thief of all soft things, and holds them in his mouth like treasured possessions.

Over Christmas, in lieu of our usual tree, resplendent with glass baubles, we opted for a slimmed down version, dotted with unbreakable children’s ornaments. Nash developed a crush on Snow White, and would kidnap her repeatedly, holding her delicately by her string. He’d bring her with him to his “place” where he’d gaze at her adoringly while gently petting her pretty yellow skirt. (Cute, but also kind of creepy.)

His own toys don’t fare so well.

So far, Kong is the only brand that stands up to his vice-like grip. The beautiful “indestructible” stuffed lion he got for Christmas is now shoved in a cupboard, without a face. Ditto his giraffe. The Big Five are no match for a fearless goldendoodle.

Since his arrival, I’ve walked hundreds of kilometres in all weather. (See: bait-and-switch, above.)

Putting on doggy booties, with their zippers and Velcro, is akin to dressing toddler triplets in snowsuits. You need the patience of a saint, and the dexterity of an old-time TV repairman. One booty goes on, and he promptly begins the painstaking process of taking it off. Once he’s successfully outfitted, you feel exhausted and victorious. Then you remember that the walk hasn’t even started yet.

Outdoors, he clops along like a drunken reindeer. It’s hilarious and endearing. Some people have recommended dog-waders that go up around the body. I’ll consider it if he takes up fly-fishing.

He tolerates his parka, but chases his faux-fur hood in a never-ending loop. His preferred pastime is collecting leaves, which he shows off while grinning with his trademark underbite.

Nash loves other dogs. The mere sight of a potential canine friend sends him into paroxysms of unbridled joy. He barks, jumps, pulls, lunges, flips upside down, and loses his ever-loving mind. He’s what’s called a “frustrated greeter.” Not to be confused with a frustrated owner. Just saying.

All this to say we got what we bargained for, and then some.

He’s upended our routine and depleted our bank accounts.

But we love him anyway.

Next up: puppy life skill classes.

Maybe he’ll learn how to put on his own booties.

Somehow, I doubt it.