When a baby isn’t a baby, but a dog
Changing habits may take a change of scenery
I did something really bad and, as a result, I am now paying the price.
It has been happening now for about eight years. Although I knew it was wrong, I continued on – knowing all the while I was creating a monster.
So, as our Gold Dog looks up at me with his big brown eyes, the words slowly start to come out of my mouth.
“My baby…” I start to say.
But then I catch myself. In a matter of a couple of months our Gold Dog is going to become a dog. Our child on the way will become our baby.
And life for the last eight years, as we all have known it, will change forever.
Calling Copper our baby came very easy to me. After all, he relied on me to feed, care and love him. It has been my job – and something I have taken great pleasure in – for years.
He has been a constant companion and friend, and I have never felt alone in our house with a busy working husband. It is nice to have a friend (even if he does eat bunny rabbits like Gold Fish Crackers and chases flies).
“Hello, Gold Dog,” I say as I burst through the door on my lunch break.
Slowly, he creeps down the stairs (where I left him in the morning) as he stretches his long, gold forearms before greeting me.
“How’s my bab…” I start again.
Now in my sixth month of pregnancy, I have begun reading a great deal of literature on dogs and babies.
It turns out they are not one in the same.
It also turns out that calling your dog “baby” for the last eight years is a big parenting “no-no”. (Already I am off to a great start!)
So I once again stop myself mid-sentence and replace the word “baby” with “bubba.”
You think he will notice? (I think I am giving the Gold Dog a lot more credit than I should. After all, he does bark at his own shadow)
Looking at my calendar, I dread the day I must take Copper into the vet for his tooth extraction and teethcleaning. But I know it must be done for the sake of his health.
Knowing the risks of an eight-year-old dog going under anesthesia, I swallow the lump in my throat, take him off his Vera Bradley leash (it is a manly pattern, I swear) and walk away.
This time on my lunch hour, I enter our empty home in the rain and stop myself from calling out his name.
Even though I know he will only be gone for an afternoon, I hate the silence the house brings without the dog.
Settling into a little routine, I turn on “Home Improvement” and eat lunch in front of the television. I make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich (no crust) and grab an applesauce. I quickly turn on the radio to drown out the quite.
As the rain beats against the house, I feel an empty feeling in my stomach and just then the television goes out.
I sit completely alone in silence.
Looking around, I realize it is one of the strangest moments of my life. This is the first time I have ever been completely alone in our home of four years.
In a matter of a couple of months, a newborn Borchers will enter our lives and change our house forever, in the best way possible.
This may be the last time I am completely alone again for a very long time.
It is surreal as I watch the rain continue to beat down against my freshly planted flowers.
I take in the quiet.
I pick up Copper from the vet and my cell phone rings. I juggle an 80-pound Golden Retriever, a two-pound purse, an umbrella, a cardigan, a half-full bottle of water and a one pound-two-ounce baby growing inside me, allthewhile balancing my cell phone on my ear.
My mother pulls into the driveway and in the mist of it all I smile, look up and wave as I get my keys out to open the door while still talking on the phone.
The dog rushes into the house, my mother coo’s over newly purchased baby clothes and my phone rings twice all in the span of 15 minutes.
The house is once again filled with noise and the craziness that I have become so accustomed to.
Although it is difficult to bend over with my stomach growing bigger by the day, I make the effort and kiss my baby … er… dog. I am incredibly glad and grateful that he is home again with us.
And I can’t help but smile and think this is just the beginning.
Megan Borchers is a freelance writer for the Morris Daily Herald. She can be reached at mborchers05@yahoo.com
