Since her one-night-only performance of "Runaway Bride", Lily has been pretty much amazing. The night after her escape she laid a sweet douce down on the rug, but since then she's been good as gold, no accidents inside, tail curled and wagging, eager to be patted and adored (usually) and fed anything you might want to offer (always). After a slate of difficult days, I was basically praying that Friday would be a good day. "Just one," I pleaded, partly to her, partly to any higher power that covers canine behaviour (Moses?), "Just one good day. That's all I need."
And I got it.
TB went to see Ironman after work so that meant that I was going to be the first one home for a change. As I took the bus home, I cringed, my stomach hardening at the thought of what I'd find when I got there. What I found was a pug. A little pug with her paws and face up against the inner door (we have an "airlock" system in place now to stop her from running), whining and crying to be with me.
Dafuq?
I opened the door and petted her as she rubbed her face against me, tail wagging madly, devocalized bark squeaking away. I thought maybe she needed to go outside, so I put on her leash and took her on a quick walk but she was just as happy to be with me when we returned. She went to the bathroom outside (for which she was praised like she'd just cured parvo), was sweet to me all evening and slept most of the day.
By the weekend she was letting us give her a bath and being sociable with visitors. By Monday she was greeting TB the same way she had greeted me on Friday.
Not every day is going to be perfect, I know, and we still need to teach her that 6am is an ungodly time to be up, and that "sit"ing and "stay"ing will result in copious amounts of treats, but... holy crap you guys. Our cowardly pee machine is gradually turning into a goofy cuddlebug and it's remarkable.
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