Tilda was with us for less than a week when this picture was taken – still velvet soft and happy to sleep most of the day away. This was before she entered what I lovingly refer to her as Psychotic Baby Teeth stage, when she was capable of instilling the same kind of fear I imagine might overcome me if I were swimming underwater and came face to face with Jaws. She was the perfect, docile little angel when the dog trainer came over for a session, and then within five minutes of his departure, something would click inside of her brain like an itty bitty bullhorn announcing, “TIME TO GO BATSHIT!” and we’d all take cover.

Bringing Tilda into our lives has not been without its challenges and adjustments. In fact, I’ll say it has been one of the biggest challenges my husband and I have faced together, one that I am, quite frankly, relieved we got through. I had plenty of warning that the challenge of raising a puppy is a lot like the challenge of bringing up a baby, but I didn’t bother to heed any of it. All I could think about was little Tilda with her adorable puppy head resting on my husband’s knee, and her adorable puppy tail wagging when she curled up in my lap. I wasn’t able to think about the muddy paw prints that would be a permanent fixture on our kitchen floor, the countless toys she would destroy within minutes, the rug she would chew up, or the clothes she would rip to shreds. I had no way of knowing how much brain space she would take up, how many details I would have to keep track of, how many bags of poo I’d have to collect. More to the point:  I had no earthly idea what I was getting myself into.

But the weeks passed, and things began to shift. Her baby teeth fell out, and I high-fived everyone I came into contact with. She started going out on regular doggy play dates, getting the happy exercise she needs and making lots of friends. She is – after who knows how many miles marched around our neighborhood – finally learning to heel and I’m actually enjoying our daily walks. She still barks too much, steals our socks, gets into the trash, and jumps on everyone, but in those areas where she’s still too feisty, I know it is a matter of training more than her being a bad dog. In other words, I’m doing my best, and tackling as much as I can with regard to her behavior. She might not be an example of perfect discipline, but we’ve made huge progress.

Through it all, I love being woken up by her in the morning, her body so full of energy and excitement that she can hardly contain herself. I love her Chewbacca-esque complaints, and I love how thrilled she gets when I give her a piece of cardboard (cardboard!) I love that she has a little stubborn side to her, and that she transitions immediately from fierce (meaning:  barking) protector to everyone’s best friend the minute someone walks into our house. I love the way she curls up next to my feet when I’m washing my face before bed. She has become, despite my frustrations and resistance and downright momentary regrets, part of our family.

I was slightly terrified to get a puppy. My track record with pets hasn’t been especially happy or good, and I wasn’t sure I would do a good enough job. At one particularly difficult point during Tilda’s training, our trainer gently told us that if this wasn’t what we had signed up for, she was sure she could find Tilda a good home. Oddly, having someone give us permission to make that choice made me that much more committed to working through our issues. And while I’m not sure we actually “worked through” them, I know we have at least moved beyond them, and I’m now content to simply do my best, love her as much as I can, and sink into all the joyful imperfections of our lovely Tilda Bear.