Blown Right Out of My Shoes
A love letter to my 100-pound puppy, Sophie
We got home from work late last night. I hadn't been around Sophie much this week, so when
I finally let her off the chain, she was beside herself with excitement. She came inside with us
for the first time in about four days — a rare treat, since she can't be in the house while I'm
cooking and doing the evening routine.
Sophie isn't in the house for long stretches, so a little later I went back outside to grab her
food bowl. She followed me out, and that's when it happened. She came running at me. Full out
running. I'm talking open-field sprint. I started screaming, "No, Sophie, no, no, noooo" — but
she came at me like a linebacker blitzing the quarterback. Head-butted me square on. Flew
me ten feet backwards. I lost my shoes in the process. She blew me clean out of them.
I landed on the ground, and before I could even get my bearings, she was on top of me,
jumping and licking, thrilled beyond words to see me. And I remember thinking, very clearly,
this is it, she is going to break my hip. Then, while I was still trying to catch my breath, she
started plopping her whole body down on me, smothering my face, and I was screaming, "Get
off me!"
That's when she finally clued in that I was no longer thrilled to see her. She pulled her head
back and looked at me — genuinely devastated. And that hurt my heart more than the tackle
did, honestly. But I still had to say it: "Get off me, you big lug."I rolled up off the ground and started my slow, wincing shuffle, flinching every time she so
much as twitched near me. Once I got my bearings, I asked, "Okay, girl, where are my
shoes?" She looked at me, all innocence. What? I didn't wear your shoes. I finally spotted
them ten or fifteen feet away. "Holy cow, girl," I told her, "you just sent me packing."
I teetered my way toward my shoes, and every time she came barreling back at me, I'd double
up my fist and growl "no" at her, just to keep her at bay. Eventually I collected her bowl, my
shoes, and myself, and made my slow, aching way back to the house.
She just turned one this past June, and apparently these guardian breeds stay puppies until
they're eighteen to twenty-four months old. I told my husband, I am not sure I am going
to survive her childhood.
She's running somewhere between 100 and 135 pounds right now, which means the window
for teaching her gentler manners is closing fast. Funny enough, she's already learned not to
run full-tilt at me anymore — that lesson landed. But she's also figured out exactly who the soft
touch in this house is. If she's hungry, thirsty, or just wants to be petted, she comes and noses
at me, gentle at first, until I've worked through the entire checklist. She doesn't push harder
with the nose — if I keep ignoring her, she switches to using her teeth instead. It's not meant
to hurt, though; the second I say "ouch," she backs right off and doesn't do it again. I've
learned the difference now — a closed-mouth nudge with teeth is just her asking again, but if
she ever opens her lips, that's a whole different signal, and a serious one. Russ gets none of
this. He doesn't snuggle like I do, and he has zero tolerance for her wanting her own way, so
she doesn't even try it on him.
No matter how many times I tell her no, she just looks at me like, why would you tell me that if
I clearly need something? If I get firm, she does stop. But I don't want her to go without —
even if what she needs is just snuggles.
So that's where we are: a hundred-plus pounds of guardian dog who still thinks she's a lap
puppy, a hip that's still a little tender, and a heart that's completely, hopelessly hers anyway.
— Valley