Dear little long nose
Your bed has stood by the window for three days. Yesterday I moved it near the sofa because the window felt draughty. Today I returned it, remembering the square of sun on the floor. You have not arrived, yet I am learning to see the flat from the height of four future paws.
I promise not to rush
I have a list of absurd names and a thousand photographs of other puppies. On day one I will not ask you for a perfect pose. We will find water, a quiet place and the door outside. You may hide under a blanket. I will sit nearby. There will be time enough for our very large little life.
One more promise
A folder called Dog has appeared on my phone. So far it contains a shopping list, the clinic number and a photograph of a socket that needs making safe. I thought preparation meant choosing a bowl. Apparently it also means noticing the cable under the desk and deciding who will stay with you on the first working day.
I put a note on the fridge: “Do not invite everyone to meet the puppy at once.” My friends are already offended by the fridge. I explained that you will have an entire new world: the floor, kitchen smells, the lift and a person who currently talks too much.
If you dislike the bed I spent two evenings choosing, we will try another spot. If the funny name is awkward to call outside, we will choose a shorter one. I will try not to confuse my preparations with your wishes.
For now the bed is back beside the sofa. There is no perfect square of sunlight. But there is no draught. I think I am learning.
Useful? Save it for your next walk.