Pack of three

The pup now has a name: Cooper. He is indeed very cute. For now, that cuteness is what is keeping him alive. This pup is a footsoldier of the devil. He is smart and willful and has sharp little teeth and an earsplitting bark. If he wants something, he puts a bead on it and becomes much like the alien bounty hunter guy from the X-Files. He takes correction rather poorly: he will ignore it altogether, or squawk angrily and continue the offending behavior.
Yesterday at dinner, Cooper was jumping up on VBM's legs because he wanted some damn dinner. VBM, a devout disciple of the Monks of New Skete, followed their instruction to the letter. He took both of Cooper's giant cute front paws in his hands and proceeded to hold them. According to the Monks, the dog will not like being out of balance on his hind legs and this will somehow discourage him from jumping up. Cooper just danced around. He was completely at ease on his little back haunches. He reminds me of Cartman in the episode where he goes on daytime talkshow tv as an out of control kid and says: "Whatevah! I do what I want!" over and over again.
VBM is still in the "quite fond" stages with Cooper. I am head over heels. I am aware that some of my attachment to having a dog is the romantic, idealistic notion of having a wordless bond with another living being. Yes, I have fantasies about my grown, dignified, beautiful samoyed dog accompanying me on silent trails in the foothills of Mount Hood. In my little daydream he walks close by me and I have no fears that bears or catamounts or bigfoots will eat me for lunch because I have dog with me. I am also clear that this poop-eating, squealing, demanding little ball of precious damn cute is going to be after me for something all of the time for the next several months.
Loki taught me about acceptance, which is the hardest thing for me. When I met her, she wasn't the least bit interested in me. She came with VBM and he indicated that for about the first two years he had her, she wasn't interested in him, either. Still, I was comitted to bringing her about, and eventually she did choose to hang out with me and get excited when I came home from work. We walked. Alot. I tend to get a good amount of work done when I am walking. Plenty of accepting, actually. Loki became such a good and strong friend for me, and a force in my life for quiet and for forward motion. All throughout the relationship I had with her, she made it necessary for me to accept things--first her indifference, and later, her sickness. (Amid a host of other things big and small about being with her.) When Loki got sick, I was heartbroken and I was damned if I wasn't going to try to make her better. In the end, of course, her liver disease forced me to accept that she was dying, and I was going to lose her, no matter how much liver support I fed her, or how much knowledge I had acquired about liver failure. I miss her something fierce. Cooper does a few things that make me wonder if she isn't in there: he lies down in the same place she did, he doesn't like to cuddle, he has her crappy attitude about pleasing us.
I will keep my fantasy about my big white familiar walking at my side. Right now, though, I think I have to clean up some poop.