Life with our little Stormy is going well so far. I think. I hope.
Most days are good; I get a little concerned over some of the rough play in the back yard. Concerned to the point that the only time we let the terrier pup out with both greyhounds at the same time is the early morning potty break when they are still a little sleepy.
When Storm is out with just one big dog, they play and have fun. When all three of them are out there together, the hounds tend to gang up on Little Dude (his most common nickname) and roll him around and cover him with doggie noogies. The canine equivalent of stealing his lunch money.
Hackles go up, so we break it up. And then Storm looks at us like we spoiled his fun and he goes right back for more. There is a lot of greyhound psychology to this (all rules of nice play inside the house are forgotten in wide open spaces) so this is something we will have to work on for a while.
Monday night I was home alone with the pack since my hubby was out of town. I went through the usual dinner routine: Little Dude eats his supper upstairs while the big ones do their business in the yard. Then the puppy goes outside for his major transaction while the needle-nosed hounds come in for their dinner. Then we all come together in the family room for the evening.
It was going pretty well and I was rather proud of myself. Then it was time for bed. And Storm decides to avoid me.
He ran like a crazed jack rabbit through the house. Up the stairs, down the stairs. Under the dining room table and chairs, under the kitchen table and chairs. Anywhere I couldn't reach him. I ran square into one of the pet gates in the kitchen. A great deal of loud swearing ensued.
Little Brat (his second most common nickname) finally ran upstairs and into his crate. He then patiently waited for his good-boy reward for going into his den voluntarily. I catch my breath, close the door and give him his cookie.
I added an activity point to my WeightWatchers tracker for that escapade.