A small animal's magnetism

I've learned a thing or two about dog ownership in the three weeks we've had Stewie.

* Every puppy should come with free spray bottles of Resolve carpet cleaner, Lysol and bleach.

* If you think you can train your dog not to sleep with you, think again.

* Dog breath should be considered a lethal weapon.

Don't get me wrong. The Other Half and I absolutely adore our little dachshund. We are the typical childless, doting dog owners -- the kind of people you see interacting with animals and think, "Maybe it's time to consider a baby." But can a 7-month-old baby be potty trained? Will he run to you when you come home from work, begging for a game of fetch? Will he lick your hand adoringly after meals? I think not.

Stewie gets walked at least five times a day, including by someone we pay to come over and play with him between Mr. Half departing for his night shift and me arriving home from my day shift.

When he comes in from his walks, we say, "Let's clean the tootsies!" It's Stewie's signal to stop and get his paws cleaned with special wipes before he's allowed on the carpet. He's got two kinds of chewy bones, seven other toys and special training treats.

We make a hard food, soft food and lipid oil mixture for his breakfast. He's already discovered how to suck the soft food out and leave the rest. I went to his neutering appointment Monday armed with almost a page full of questions to ask about behaviors I'd witnessed over these few weeks. He coughs sometimes ... is that normal? He eats more on some days than others ... is that normal? Does he smell better or worse than a normal dog? Is there anything that can be done about his breath? The veterinarian's assistant tried to answer my questions, but like any overprotective mother, it wasn't enough. "Am I going to get to see the veterinarian?" I asked. To her credit, she suppressed the eye-rolling that must have welled up inside her, especially when I got all verklempt and almost forgot my contact phone number when they took my boy away.

Maggie, our cat, is baffled by all this. Her introduction to our household included a tour of the litter box, food and water and scratching post, then she was pretty much on her own. I'm trying to give her plenty of attention while the new pet gets adapted, but it doesn't seem to be working. She expressed her outrage by purging her dinner in front of the television just minutes before my Super Bowl party guests were due to arrive. I swear she checks my calendar to see when people are coming over.

Meanwhile, Stewie is petrified of her. I imagine she harasses him when we're gone. Maybe a nanny-cam is in order.

It's Monday night, and they're at peace now. Stewie is back from the veterinarian's office and heavily sedated, less of a man than he used to be. He's got antibiotics and painkillers to take, but I guess that can wait.

Maggie is sitting on Mr. Half's lap, content that she can be the center of attention as long as that darned dog stays asleep. She's probably figuring out a way to spike his water with leftover painkillers.

And I'm sitting here thinking how sad it is that I managed to fill a whole column with stories about a dog and cat. It's hopeless -- they'll have their own wardrobes before long.

I promise not to write about them any more. Unless they do something really cute.

Heidi Hall is a former managing editor of the Southeast Missourian. She lives in St. Petersburg, Fla.