Most people cope with a global pandemic by baking sourdough bread or learning a language they will never speak. I decided to fill my house with the highest-octane energy available in the canine kingdom: Rat Terriers. Looking back at the blur of the COVID years, when I was working remotely for the college and the world felt like it was on pause, the only things that were definitely not on pause were the dogs.They entered the timeline like very different comets. Rocket arrived first, around 2021, right in the thick of the work-from-home era. Rocket is a Type B Rat Terrier, also known as a Theodore Roosevelt Terrier, and he lives up to the “Teddy” name. He is built like a low-rider tank—short legs, long body, and a chest like a barrel. He operates close to the ground, a heat-seeking missile for blankets and snacks. Then came Bella in 2022, the Type A. If Rocket is a tank, Bella is a gazelle. She is square, long-legged, and elegant, standing twice as tall as Rocket. When they stand next to each other, they look like the canine version of Danny DeVito and Arnold Schwarzenegger in Twins.But supervising this chaotic circus is Flower. At thirteen years old, Flower has seen it all, and frankly, she is unimpressed by most of it. While Rocket and Bella spent the pandemic years bouncing off the walls and barking at squirrels three counties away, Flower held down the role of Senior Management. She is the grand dame of the pack, the one who watches the young ones tear around the living room with a look that clearly says, “I am too old for this nonsense, and you are all idiots.” She sleeps more now, curling up in the sunbeams that cut across the floor, but her eyes are always open just a crack, monitoring the perimeter.Living with this trio changed the texture of my life. They became my co-workers, sleeping under the desk while I navigated Zoom calls, occasionally sighing loudly when meetings ran long. But right now, the dynamic in the pack has shifted because Bella is currently defying the laws of physics. My sleek, fifteen-pound athlete has transformed into a thirty-pound vessel of life. She was knocked up on October 28th, and as we stare down the barrel of late December, she looks like she swallowed a watermelon sideways.It is jarring to see her this way. Bella is usually the jumper, the sprinter, the one who can clear a baby gate without breaking stride. Now, she waddles. She groans when she lies down. She has literally doubled her body weight. Rocket, poor guy, doesn’t know what to make of it; he tries to initiate play, doing his little low-rider bow, and Bella just growls. And Flower? Flower is watching it all go down from her favorite pillow with supreme skepticism. She knows what’s coming. She remembers what puppies are like—the noise, the sharp teeth, the lack of boundaries—and she is mentally preparing to retreat to higher ground.We are on the countdown now. The calendar says Christmas, and biology says puppies. Based on the math, we are looking at a due date right around December 25th. It feels fitting. In the middle of a Minnesota winter, with the wind screaming outside, we are waiting for new life. I’ve set up the whelping box, and Bella is nesting, digging frantically while Rocket patrols the hallway and Flower sighs from the couch. We’re ready for the Christmas miracle, even if it means I’ll be cleaning up puppy poop while Flower judges me from across the room.
Leave a Reply