I’m deep into Murphy Brown territory these days.

 Not Murphy Brown as in Candace Bergin gorgeous blond ice princess world by the tail news reporter.

 More like Murphy Brown, single mother of a newborn baby, as overwhelmed as those few words can paint a picture.

 There’s a puppy in the house! My house, to be specific. And while I’ve done “the puppy thing” twice before, the last time was thirteen years ago. Even then, sleeping on the kitchen floor beside the crate of a new eight-week old puppy torn from his mother’s side, I predicted that going through it again would absolutely kill me.

 And I’m now thirteen years older, and my nest is mostly empty except for me and the cat who pretty much runs on auto-pilot. This last point is a very important one in the scheme of “then” and “now,” and explains just why I’m having those Murphy Brown moments from time to time.

 Because for all my optimism, for all my “dog hunger” that had set in since Bandit died last year after eleven years in my family orbit, for all of my “hey, I’m tough, how hard could this be?”… the one thing I’d forgotten to factor in as I was driving to pick up the puppy with three teenagers in the back of the car was that thirteen years ago, the brand-new puppy at the time came with a cohort of kids to help take care of him.

 Yes, while some take the view that the combination young kids and young dogs are a recipe for exhaustion, my own experience had been quite the opposite. At least after the first couple of weeks! At any given moment, while I was making sandwiches in the kitchen or getting ready to drive to soccer, there was always someone within earshot to hear my request. “Honey, could you take out the puppy?” “Could you please get the dog some food?” “Would you take the dog out and throw the tennis ball for him for a while?” “Could you let the dog back in?”

 I’d had it made in the shade, and I’d had absolutely no idea!

 And so I jumped in feet-first, which is how I take on most things lately, and brought home a ten week old puppy to a house that would empty two days later. I have to say that training has been coming along quite well. Mine, as well as his. On Lucky’s part, he’s adjusted very nicely to the idea of using the great outdoors for a bathroom rather than the kitchen or living room, and chases his pint-size squeaky tennis balls (labeled at the pet store as “interactive tennis fetch toys” for a higher price tag) with rampant enthusiasm.

 For my part, I’ve adjusted pretty well to being restricted to the kitchen where he can see me in the safety of gated confines and not howl with loneliness. This has required the purchase of a wireless router for my laptop computer so that I can work at my kitchen counter, as well as the five days it took me to figure out how to use it. I’ve adjusted, too, to getting up early even on the days I don’t work in order to let him out on schedule, and I’ve switched my work hours to give me an earlier return time to the house. I plan “outings” for the two of us, which I’ve never done for any other dog in my life, long walks in picturesque places in an effort to wear him out. Ha ha ha. Oh, and I surrendered my fake bunny-fur bedroom slippers to save the rest of the shoes in my closet. Sometimes, sacrifices must be made for the greater good.

 But for all the grumbling and frustration, I am head over heels for this little guy. This was such a good decision.