A Love Story Written in Fluff, Snow, and Grace

Snickerdoodle — my sweet, sweet little holiday cookie — was a tiny thug when I first brought him home two years ago today.

He was the cutest creature on earth, except… and why didn’t I see this coming? …he chomped on my hands with razor teeth, sniffed, climbed, and chewed everything in sight, ate everything that smelled good (including moose droppings), pooped mush onto a white throw rug, and generally tore the place apart.

I suddenly found myself 30,000 leagues underwater.

I tend toward impulsivity. All in or completely out. My mind is always busy, and when a “great” idea floats past, I tend to snag it before it gets away from me.

And the next thing you know, I own a puppy.

What had I done?

Well, in short, this is what I did:

It started on a bleak and stormy day, as I recall…

I brought Snickerdoodle home in a basket. We had a four-hour drive from the breeders in Payette, Idaho. During the journey, we stopped three times for him to pee and once to clean barf off my pants.

Yes, I took him out of the basket and let him sleep on my lap most of the way home. The first of a zillion mistakes. Like, why didn’t I buy a crate?

I had the best intentions. I was going to be the perfect pet parent. I would do everything right.

Yeah.

Not to disburse blame, but the breeders told me he thrived on grocery-store, chicken-based kibble. Turns out: he’s allergic to chicken.

Consequences?

Massive, Jackson Pollack–esque episodes of poo. At shockingly frequent intervals.

We raced outside three-to-five times a night in the dead of winter, sometimes in minus-three-degree weather. He was anxious to get outside while I was frantically, sleepily pulling on snow pants, boots, ski gloves, and a hat — hauling him down two flights of stairs and into the nearest snowbank.

Try scooping shit-soup out of snow with a poo bag and not barfing on the spot.

There was also the time I cleaned diarrhea off the doors, seats, and ceiling of my convertible.

Oh, what fun.

Add to that: vet visits every other week. And eventually, major surgery to remove a crypt orchid — an undescended testicle—that the breeders failed to mention when they plopped him into my arms in a Payette parking lot and drove away.

In his first year alone, I spent enough money on Snickerdoodle to fund a month in Italy, cruising the Amalfi Coast in a red convertible.

But.

On the butter side up…

I loved this little monster immediately.

He slept with me from Night One — tucked between my chin and shoulder, my arm wrapped around his warm little fluffiness. On the couch: sprawled across my lap. At work: curled in his bed between rock star meet-and-greet sessions.

Two years later, not much has changed.

He’s still a rock star.
We still snuggle.
We still walk and romp almost every single day — rain, sun, and snow, in sickness and exhaustion. And in delight.
We’ve made good dog friends and friend friends.
We hang out together most all of the time—at work, in the car, and on our playpen of a couch.

When Snix was a puppy, I took him everywhere.

That wasn’t particularly easy. I tend to put my head down and ram my way through life. I’m busy. Thinking big thoughts. Feeling big feelings. Always doing, doing, doing.

But strangers — mostly young girls, and even teenage boys — wanted to pet him, hold him, kiss his tiny head.

So I shifted.

I chose generosity.

I stopped rushing.
I stopped swerving around people.
I took time.
I explained his “Service Dog in Training” vest.
I allowed the moment.

People weren’t connecting with me.
They were connecting with a few sweet seconds of sweet cookie-shaped love.

And my only job…

Was to stop.
Stand back.
And let it be.