#30 PUPPY - Christmas Eve Mistakes

Mistakes. We all make them.

Christmas Eve marked more than the anticipation of nativity, more than Santa’s sleigh slipping the jet-stream, or gifts to be gotten to. The 24th day marks the completion of Scooter’s monthly life. In this case, sixteen months, done. Remarkably well executed, in Scooter’s opinion. Until this particular December day, attention to the  24th had been met by Scooter’s humans with something like, “Oh, Scooter is” . . . four, ten, or whatever . . . Months.

Imagine then, the afternoon of December 24, 2020, when for the first time, my human Mom and I met a particular Labrador retriever; a shy, but beautifully black-coated, stately standing, well-behaved dog (But, that’s a Labrador for you). 

“Quiet, Scooter,” said she who is responsible for shaping my behavior. 

I hadn’t met this dog before. I barked. Not just a bit. Not the berserk barking that involuntarily shot from my body at the sight of an approaching white-bearded, black-booted, red-wrapped living object called Santa, but, admittedly, boisterous. We all make mistakes. One of mine is occasional, indiscriminate barking. “Indiscriminate” being an observer’s term, not mine. We all make mistakes, and upon the meeting of said Labrador, my Mom made a major one.

“What’s his name?” She asked.

“Otto”

So we met, Otto and I. Cordially.

“How old is he?” Asked my mom.

“Five months,” Otto’s  master answered.

“Ohhhh, Scooter,” said she who held my leash while I danced around a slightly startled Otto. “Scooter, Otto’s a pup-pee.” She said it like that. She fawned. 

Pay attention to what happened next.

“How old is Scooter?” Asked  the pup-pee’s man.

“Oh, my gosh. It’s the 24th. Scooter is a year-and-a-half old!” said she.

We have this thing between us. We focus our eyes on each other with purpose. In the moment she said, “year-and-a-half,” she looked at me with an expression that betrayed her thought. 

I got it. 

Otto is a puppy. Scooter no longer is. Scooter’s life will now be marked in portions of years rather than months. Scooter’s mistakes are no longer puppy-cute. 

Scooter barking at Santa, Scooter still wanting to jump up on people, Scooter reaching squeakers by shredding stuffed toys; Scooter jerking at leash in pursuit of a wind-tossed leaf; Scooter forgetting that “Stay” means stay until released, rather than Until Distracted. Scooter’s rare but unnecessary barking. . . 

“Can you believe it,” said she to my human dad, upon returning us to our home that Eve’s afternoon. “Scooter’s a year-and-a-half old today.”

“No, he’s not,” said he. He’s sixteen months old today. He’ll be a year-and-a-half in February.”

“Oh. Right. The six threw me off. He’s sixteen months old.”

I got it. 

What a gift. A two-month reprieve. I shot her a look of forgiveness. 

 We all make mistakes.