In February, our pack doubled in size, which has been really excellent for both me and the Pooks.
For me, it means company on evenings that might have been spent quietly, mindlessly staring at the television, though there's still some of that. O. is inspiring in her organization and housekeeping skills. Some day she might even rub off on me. I have been trying to do my part to make sure at least our shared spaces don't get sucked into the maelstrom of my life and spit back out in a pile of debris.
For Pooka, it means sheer joy, every day. When she and Oliver-dog have spent time apart, she dashes back up the steps sniffing excitedly, wondering if he's waiting for her on the other side of our front door. When he isn't, she searches the house for him. When he is, no matter how tired she is, impromptu wrestling match ensues. The house is filled with snarly teeth gnashing and body slamming and endless games of chase around the sofa. The back yard is one big obstacle course of jumping and wrestling and occasionally pausing to eat ornamental grasses. Sometimes, Pooks even lets Olli pin her to the ground. Briefly.
I find Pooka is more social at the dog park these days, too, which makes me think some of Olli's open nature is rubbing off on her.
There are moments when Pooka the wild animal gets a little out of control, however. She and Olli are pretty good about sharing food, but man, every now and then she just loses it when he gets too close to her rawhide, food toy, food bowl and, on rare occasions, his own food bowl. Bad. Pooka. No.
One week when O. was out of town and I was single-mom-ing it, I woke up to find Olli whining next to my bed. When I went to tuck him back under his blanket (poor skinny boy gets so chilly), I found Pooka all curled up and looking pleased with herself for displacing him. Yes, Pooka, we know you are the alpha dog in this relationship, but some things just aren't OK.
