Max is my big-ass American Bulldog puppy. 75lbs to be exact. At six months.

Uh…yeah.

Today, aching, tired and hungry, my husband arrived home, an hour late, to the smell of doggie poo. He looked high and low in Max’s little crate but the source of the odiforous-ness was missing. Where or where could the missing poo be.

Max burped. My husband gave him a “greenie” to freshen his breath.

It appeared that Max, upon deciding that no one was coming to relieve him, had relieved himself. And then, upon considering the prospect of being caged up with his highly offensive, smelly excrement, decided to eat it.

When I got home, Max bounded over to me, tail wagging and started to lick my hand. Although flattered by this rare display of affection, I had to respectfully decline the sloppy, goober-lipped kisses of a shit-eating dog.

Max, the mischevious.

I’ve never really liked dogs much or owned a dog, which is why I am always surprised at just what I will do for Max. For instance, have you ever heard the phrase “steaming pile of shit?” Well, I had never actually seen one until Max took a massive dump on a brisk October morning. I certainly had never scooped a massive pile of steaming shit into a small potty bag. Or, have you ever seen that commercial where the dog is dragging his ass across the floor of a doo-doo brown carpet in a shady motel? Well, I never realized why dogs do that, until Max needed a little help , well, getting unstuck. When he started to drag his ass across the sidewalk, I had no choice but to preserve both his dignity and mine. You got it. I had to double-bag it and tug.

Oh the joys of doggie parenthood.

But, despite the humongous pain in the ass that Max has proved to be – barking at all hours, ripping my favorite pants, scratching up my beautiful hardwood floor – I wouldn’t trade the experience for anything. Because of Max, I have become a little less self-focused and a bit more self-reflective. I’ve become a little more nurturing and a little more structured. I’ve started walking briskly because it’s good for him AND for me. I guess you could say that I’ve just started to take my time a little bit more seriously, and that’s always a good thing.

For six months of age, Max is a remarkably well-behaved puppy most days. He knows all of his commands, doesn’t jump up when he meets strangers, isn’t food aggressive or territorial. Our biggest complaint with Max? Barking and trying to swallow my pantyhose and socks. I’ve learned a lot from Max, but I suppose he’s learned a bit from me, too.