We’ve added another baby boy to our family. His name is George, and he’s a five-month-old, sixty-pound Bordeaux mastiff. He’s big, he’s playful, and he’s sweet. Also, he’s nearly impossible to control, so we’ve signed up for puppy training classes. The class is once a week at seven in the evening, which is a pretty annoying commitment given the time of day. It’s around the time we typically eat dinner, which is an issue in itself. If boyfriend doesn’t eat around the same time every day, he turns into a diva. Demanding, aggressive, on edge. His hunger really gets the best of him.
So one evening, about an hour before puppy class, I notice the diva emerging. He’s walking around the kitchen restlessly, snapping at the dogs, opening and closing cabinets. My first mind tells me “don’t cook anything, he’ll be fine until after class”. But I see him angrily chewing on a handful of dry cereal, and come to my senses. I roll my eyes, put on a pot of boiling water, chop some veggies, and in about thirty minutes we have a big, steaming bowl of pasta. Twenty minutes later, we’re in the car on the way to puppy class. The diva has disappeared, and my loving boyfriend is back. Further annoyance diverted.