I love Gordon J. Blackstone like a son.
But he's now become Public Enemy Number One in my household.
My 11-year-old black pug seems to be possessed by a malevolent spirit. He spins and spits, he's developed this way of talking in tongues which sounds suspiciously like throat singing.
He's driving me absolutely nuts.
The trouble with Gordie is that he hates the baby and everything associated with the baby. Little Skye is the sweetest little human but not to Gord. To Gord, Skye is an uninvited interloper, a taker of space to which he believes he's entitled.
Ming will sleep soundly next to me. Hannah could care less.
Gord chatters endlessly while I'm burping her or jostling her.
Sometimes, he shits himself.
And don't get him started on the playpen or the car seat. To Gord, baby paraphernalia are accessories after the fact. Even when Skye is finally taken down to her parents, Gordie will yip for a good hour and twirl in front of the baby seat, like he's doing some sort of raindance to ward away the spirits of the newest addition to our home.
I don't know what to do. I tried introducing him to Skye and he lunged for her, so he's now not allowed near her. I have to put him on a leash when I get her formula ready.
He simply cannot be trusted.
A few years ago, I met a neighbor, who it turned out, had adopted one of Gordie's siblings. After she had a baby, she had to give the dog away. I couldn't believe it at the time. I really thought that eventually a dog would come to love a baby.
I ain't happening in my house.
That doesn't mean Gordie's going to the Glue Factory. Skye is only here for a few hours in a day and he'll just have to deal.
In the meantime, I'm planning on getting earplugs, a muzzle and a round of anti-anxiety medication.
For him and for me.