Three Dogs Night

Against our better judgement, three months ago, we decided to get a third dog.
Viggo is a chocolate lab. We purchased him over the Internet, and we picked him up at a chicken auction in Winchester. A farmer had advertised two chocolate puppies, Viggo and his fat brother.
Scott picked Viggo; I wanted the fat brother. But Viggo was a present for Scott, so he got his way.
The kids thought us insane. Once again.
For the most part, they dislike the dogs. Sophie the pug is the exception, but then pugs are more like cats, and the kids like cats better than dogs. Except for Stef, who has the moribund Belle, who is a Bassett Hound, and 80 pound paper weight.
We got Viggo to stop Scott from crying. He was still pining for Finnigan, our Black Lab, who died two years ago at the tender age of six after suffering from a series of strokes.
Scott adored Finnigan, and I tolerated him. He was genuinely insane. He used to sit in the living room and bark at me, for no apparent reason, for hours. The only thing that saved us all was his obsession with his Kong. It was his safety toy, I guess.
We replaced Finnigan with Pearl, who is an equally insane Mini Australian Shepherd, who is constantly in motion, and barks so much we had to get her a "training collar." It worked like a charm. Every time, she started barking, she would performed a triple axle. She stopped barking about the third night she wore it outside.
Now, when she sees a pedestrian outside the fence, she bites Viggo.
Seems fair.
Anyway, Viggo is now five and a half months old, and 50 pounds.
He likes to sit on my lap.
He also likes to eat nylon socks, knock bottles off the counter, and stand at the door and whine all morning to be let out in the yard because he has to pee. I'm thinking of renting him out to the fire department as a spare fire hose.
The worst part of having a puppy, as you all know, is that they need to get up at 5:30 a.m. to pee. Nearly all my dogs gave up this stupid trick in a very few months because they wanted to avoid the wrath of Medusa, who isn't shy about wrapping her dreads around their throats when necessary.
Unfortunately, Viggo will not be deterred.
He is a peeing machine.
Our training is further hampered by the fact Scott works shift work, and gets up at 4 a.m. two days a week, and gets home at 5:30 a.m. two days a week.
You simply can't blame a pup when his dad rewards him for being an early riser.

I am an unabashed sleep monster who absolutely hates getting up at the crack of dawn. Medusa needs her eight hours to look her best. (Actually, what I look like at 6 a.m. is Medusa and I act like Regan, the girl from the Exorcist with the potty mouth. Generally, without pants.)
In my quest for a full night's sleep, I've become a basement dweller constantly reassured by Sophie, who is a calm little pug with mild allergies. Pearl sleeps in her crate with her Weasel. Viggo generally sleeps with Scott unless he's on the night shift, and then I sleep horizontally against the headboard with a 50 pound idiot sleeping on my old lady bladder.
When Scott works the day shift and gets up at 4 a.m., that maybe be the worst shift of all.
At 4:30, he puts Viggo in his crate where he barks until I get up ten minutes later. (And not a minute more!)
Then we go upstairs, and I sleep on the couch, with Viggo laying on my legs.
At 6:30 a.m., it's feeding minute which is harrowing, at best.
Lately, I've begun to feel like a lion tamer, as Pearl and Sophie regularly fight to the death for the last crumb of dog food while Viggo looks on.
I've taken to feeding all of them in different corners of the house to avoid bloodshed -- mostly mine as I get chomped on regularly trying to tear Pearl's jaws from Sophie's throat.
Currently, I am nursing a broken toe nail, a bruise the size of the map of Texas and a chronically sore throat from telling them all to go "fk themselves".
The sequestering seems to have done the trick, but I continue to be wary.
It's what happens, I guess, when the vet makes you put your pug on a diet.

The three dog sideshow has also pitted me against the Neighbour From Hell who came slamming into my door one day complaining about the dogs barking at 6:35 a.m. Medusa raised her ugly head, and scared her off, but not before she insisted I put muzzles on the dogs.
That's why we got the dog collar.
(And I hurriedly paid up the dog licences in case she called bylaw.)

I love the dogs, don't get me wrong.
But the next time, Scott starts crying, I'm just going to buy him a tiny violin.

(BTW, it's taken me over an hour to write this blog post thanks to Viggo's delicate bladder. I'm going out to buy him a busman's helper.)