Mr. Middle of the Night

Rosie can eat anything, and does, and wishes she could eat more. No matter what contraband she discovers and devours, she never exhibits any ill effects. She has a Lab cast-iron stomach. Riley was that way, too. Except for the time when, as a puppy, he discovered the garbage bag full of discarded Gravy Train (we had seen the error of our ways and started feeding our dogs much better-quality kibble) and ate nearly all of it, only to stagger out of the garage, belly distended, crawl under the lilac bush, and retch horribly--except for that time, Riley, too, was pretty much Stomach of Steel.

Angus, we are learning, is more of a Stomach of Glass kind of pup, much like Boscoe was. One little dietary change and it throws the whole digestive system off.

Yesterday was a good puppy day. A longish walk in the balmy sunrise morning--weirdly warm for January (which of course now means everything is icy), playtime in the yard (as photographed by Doug), visits from the high school girl and the dogwalker, and then evening robust play in the yard with the neighbor Brittanies.

What more could a puppy ask for? What more, you ask? How about a knuckle bone!? A new one, coated in some sort of meat-flavored-god-knows what, stuffed with something else I don't understand (marrow, one would hope), something to chew and gnaw for days and weeks to come....

Of course both dogs chewed all of the meat (or whatever it is) off the bone immediately, and Rosie dug out most of the marrow, and they went to bed happy.

And Angus got up at 1. Stomach ache. I took him out.
And 2. Stomach ache. Doug took him out.
And 4. Stomach ache. I took him out.

By then Doug had moved across the hall to try to salvage some of the night, so I plopped Angus onto the bed with me and we both fell asleep.  And when I woke up two hours later, he was lying on my arm, warm and soft, and delicately nibbling on my thumb.

There are worse ways to wake up.

Oh--he now weighs 16.5 pounds. He is just a few days shy of 12 weeks old.