Dog Mom

Originally published May 2009

You don’t call yourself my mom and I’m not your daughter, but you call me your girl. With each walk we take, each ball you throw for me, each gentle touch and pat, you’re my girl too.

Remember me? This little puppy you took into your house and made me a home. You cared for me like a child, doggy-style.

And yes, I peed on the carpet. You thought I’d never get potty-trained, but we did it.

And you don’t call yourself my mom.

You taught me how to behave properly and be polite and I know that took some doing.

Remember our off-leash walks in the wooded dog park, where I would eat anything and everything? Even poop? You made it clear that was not acceptable. But we would return there, sometimes twice a day, because we both loved it and you knew I could learn.

And you don’t call yourself my mom.
You took me to puppy class and socialized my fuzzy self with the other clueless pups. The best part was after the business end of the lessons, we’d have free play. You’d laugh the loudest at all the playful fur flying and say my name with a grin. You were proud – I could feel it.

And you don’t call yourself my mom.

Now, puppyhood is over and I’m older than you are (if you use the doggy math.) We still walk in the wooded dog park (no more poop picnics), still socialize with other dogs and you still laugh the loudest at my antics and say my name with a grin.

All I can woof is “Thanks Mom!”

Dedicated to all the pet “moms” out there.
Happy Mother’s Day!