Ever since we said goodbye to our sweet Cowboy two years ago, I believed no dog could ever live up to him. I also knew I wasn’t done with dogs. I’ve always loved them. I wanted another. My husband was adamant that we weren’t ready, that it was too much work right now, that it would ruin our yard, pee on our carpet, destroy our furniture and cause more stress than it was worth. I was relentless with my pleadings and finally, he told me if I wanted one that bad, then fine — but it was up to me to make it work.
This may seem silly, but because it is such a major life adjustment and a decision that would affect the whole family, we prayed and fasted about it.
That very day, we found our Honey.
I came across an Instagram account of a small family breeder of Bernedoodles — the same breed as our Cowboy — in northern Utah. I sent her a message, and she responded as we were sitting in sacrament meeting. I took it as an answer to prayer. We decided to drive up there after church and meet the puppies.
As soon as we walked in, I was in love. The dogs looked exactly like Cowboy did. I picked up one and the breeder said, “So all of our dogs’ names start with the letter ‘B.’ That one is Boston.”
My mouth fell open. “All our boys start with the letter ‘B’ — and that is the name of our oldest!” Another sign, I thought. This was meant to be.
A few excruciatingly long weeks later, we picked up our little girl puppy who we decided to name Honey — which goes along with our family theme of bees. (Our boys are the Killer Bees, I am the Queen Bee, we call our home the Herbert Hive, and our dog is our Honey. Sickeningly sweet, I know. But that’s our thing.)
I ordered a little collar with a bow that had a honeycomb and bees on it. I prayed she’d be everything and more for our family. I wanted this to work so badly. But it soon became clear this 50-pound — and growing— girl had something Cowboy didn’t: attitude.
It wasn’t long before my soft “I love yous” before I put her to bed at night became “I hate you so much,” which was probably not the best idea as I read dogs can feel your energy and all the energy I was sending her way was “you’re gone tomorrow, missy.” Brad was right — she peed on the carpet. She made paw prints on our furniture. She chewed on the doors. She barked. She bolted. She drove me bonkers.
I tried three different trainers before I found the right fit. We did everything they told us to do, and little by little, I could see my rambunctious, loud, hyper puppy making progress.
One day, we were out and about on our daily walk to the school to pick up my 6-year-old, Briggs, from kindergarten. My 4-year-old, Benson, was in the stroller, and Honey was walking beside me, ever the picture of an obedient dog, her leash tied to the handle. As we neared the pickup line, I noticed Honey seemed really excited to get to Briggs. In fact, she was pulling so hard on the stroller, I let go, and said, “Benson, look! Honey is pulling you all by herself!”
That was a stupid, horrible mistake.
Honey suddenly made one massive lunge for the kindergarten line, breaking her collar clean in half. The momentum tipped the stroller over, trapping my tiny preschooler underneath.
“Honey!” I yelled at the top of my lungs, panicking as she ran straight for the kids. Honey was laser focused on whoever had the most terrified expression on their face and went for them first, jumping up on them and sniffing all sorts of places.
“HONEY!” My screams intensified as she spotted me, then made a beeline for the playground, doing laps around the yard.
“Whose dog is this?” I could hear the teachers ask in alarm as my Godzilla puppy made a mad dash for the open door to the school and tore inside. One of the teachers shut her classroom door, trapping her in, and somehow managed to shoo her back outside to where I all but tackled her to the ground, grabbing her by the skin of her neck, and dragged her back to the stroller that my sweet friends were pushing back with, oh yeah, my other child, who was still sniffling from being knocked to the ground (it was on the grass and he wasn’t injured, thank goodness).
I won’t tell you all the names I called her as we walked home. I was furious. And embarrassed. And heartbroken. This was not the kind of dog I wanted.
I was folding laundry a little while later, when life’s stresses and worries seemed to consume me. It wasn’t just the dog. It was everything. I felt so overwhelmed. I buried my face in the clothes pile and began to cry.
Suddenly, Honey walked in. She came over to me and stood completely still, and looked directly into my eyes. It was almost as if she was saying, “I am here. Are you OK?” Then she began licking away my tears as I held on to her soft ears, and pressed my head against hers. She let me cry. After a moment, she walked out and went back to her nap. That tiny little gesture gave me a glimpse into what could one day become a wonderful companionship.
Honey isn’t my mellow Cowboy. But she is smart. She is playful. She will run miles with me on the trail, and stay right by my side. She is intuitive. She wants to please us. She loves us, and I guess little by little, I’m starting to love her, too.
My husband keeps saying, “Give it a year. She’s only six months. She’s halfway there. Just give it a year, and then we’ll see.”
We’ll see.