By Suparna Mathur
In July of 2006, I became a Mommy for the very first time.
Being the daddy’s girl that I am, I called up my darling Dad and said, “I’ve got news! You’ve become a ‘Nana‘ (grandfather)!” I was met with silence, and I could imagine his heart skipping a beat across the Atlantic. “I got a puppy! It’s an adorable little boy and I’ve named him Snickers. I bring him home next week.”
Naturally, he was so comforted by the fact that his 22-year-old unmarried daughter was not ‘with child’ that he shared my happiness (mixed with a large dose of relief). Plus, there was only so much he could do given I was living in Toronto while he was in the United Arab Emirates.
After the usual ‘Are you ready for this responsibility?’ and ‘Dogs are a lot of work’, we ended the conversation quite positively. Now that I had my Dad’s blessing, I thought the toughest part was over. Little did I know.
A blur of excitement and apprehension followed as I bought puppy training books, toys, food, and set about puppy-proofing my apartment.
Everyone advises you to choose a puppy that is ‘moderate’. Playful but not too playful; calm but not too calm. That’s the thing with choosing a pet – you get the impression you have an element of choice in the personality you bring home (Wouldn’t it be great if you could do the same with children?)
The day I met Snickers, he was playful to the extent of hyper – a warning sign in many a book – but it was too late. I was hopelessly in love. My little muffin (the first of an endless array of nicknames) was a “Pappi-poo”, all black with three white paws, and fit into the palm of my hand.
The day I brought him home, friend after friend stopped by and ‘aww-ed’ at his cuteness. Nine hours later, and he had not stopped moving. He was like an energizer bunny. I sat down, watching him run from side to side of the living room, and thought ‘What did I get myself into?’
