Beating a Full Moon Puppy

Let me tell you, I thought I knew tired. Like, really knew it. Spent a year working two jobs in college, pulled all-nighters for exams that felt like actual physical assaults on my brain cells. Thought I’d tasted the bitter dregs of fatigue. Ha. HA. That was child’s play. That was a gentle lullaby compared to this. This tiny, adorable, terrorizing fluffball I optimistically (foolishly?) brought home four weeks ago. A full-moon puppy, I swear. Not because of any lunar phase nonsense, but because every single day, every waking (and non-waking, because who sleeps?) moment feels like being subjected to the amplified, chaotic energy of a creature possessed by, well, the idea of a full moon. It’s not about beating it, you understand, not in any literal sense. God, no. It’s about being beaten by it. Utterly, relentlessly, soul-crushingly beaten into submission by something weighing maybe five pounds on a good day.

Look around. Just… look. See that chewed-up slipper that was, like, an hour ago, a functioning slipper? See the suspiciously wet patch on the rug that I swear wasn’t there sixty seconds ago? Hear that intermittent, high-pitched whine that drills into your very core, even through walls, even when you’re trying to hide in the bathroom for a blessed 90 seconds of peace? This is my life now. This is the battlefield. And I am losing. Spectacularly.

I remember, vaguely, a time before. A time when I could drink a cup of coffee without simultaneously preventing a small land shark from attacking the sofa legs. A time when I didn’t automatically scan the floor for ‘surprises’ every time I walked into a room. A time when ‘quiet night in’ meant reading a book, not spending two hours trying to convince a tiny tyrant that biting fingers is not, in fact, a fun game. That time feels like a distant, beautiful dream I can barely recall. Was it even real? Or just a cruel trick my memory plays?

This isn’t training. Training implies progress, a linear path towards a desired outcome. This is less ‘training,’ more ‘desperate containment’ punctuated by moments of profound despair and the occasional, fleeting second where the creature is asleep and looks vaguely angelic, lulling you into a false sense of security before it inevitably springs back to life, usually with a renewed focus on destroying something crucial. My favorite book? Gone. Corners of furniture? Sculpted by tiny, razor-sharp teeth. My ankles? Apparently, the chew toys I bought are less appealing than my fragile human flesh. I walk with the cautious gait of someone navigating a minefield, except the mines are random puddles and the constant threat of a surprise puppy pounce.

They say puppies need socialization. They say expose them to everything! People, sounds, other dogs! Great advice, truly. If you can get them out the door before they decide to eat the doormat. Or if you have the energy to supervise a playdate where your precious furball spends the entire time trying to sample the other dog’s ears. Socialization feels less like a bonding experience and more like introducing a tiny agent of chaos to new environments for it to systematically dismantle or terrorize. The vet? A nightmare of trembling and accidental peeing. The pet store? An overwhelming sensory overload that results in even more frantic chewing when we get home.

Sleep? What is sleep? It’s a theoretical concept I read about in books I can no longer access because they’ve been moved to high shelves, deemed too precious for the floor-dwelling destroyer. Nights are a cycle of the Whine. The inevitable need to Go Outside (usually 30 seconds after you finally drifted off). The sudden thud as they launch themselves off the puppy bed. The frantic scrabbling as they try to dig through the carpet. You stumble out of bed, bleary-eyed, a zombie on auto-pilot, whispering pleas to a being incapable of complex negotiation. “Please, just… just sleep, buddy. Please.” It’s like talking to a brick wall, if the brick wall occasionally peed on your foot.

Every day feels like a new challenge has been unlocked in this twisted video game of puppy ownership. Yesterday, it was perfecting the art of stealing socks right off your feet. Today? It’s treating the kitchen floor like a slip-and-slide with a side of impromptu potty breaks. Tomorrow? Who knows! Maybe it will figure out how to open the fridge. I wouldn’t put it past him. He has that glint in his eye. The look of a tiny mastermind plotting the next phase of my undoing.

And the guilt! Oh, the guilt is a constant companion. Am I doing enough? Am I doing it right? Why won’t he listen? Am I failing him? The internet is full of conflicting advice. “Positive reinforcement!” they chirp. Yes, I’ve positively reinforced my credit card bill buying every treat and toy under the sun. “Consistency is key!” Easier said than done when your brain is mush and you can barely remember what day it is. You read all the books, watch all the videos, and still, this small creature seems determined to defy every known principle of animal behavior. He is an anomaly. A furry, land-based hurricane.

There are moments, brief, fleeting moments, where the chaos subsides. When he curls up in a tight ball, finally asleep after a manic hour of zoomies. When he looks up at you with those big, innocent eyes before doing something utterly terrible. When he gives you a quick, sloppy kiss (usually right after trying to eat something questionable off the floor). In those seconds, a tiny crack appears in the wall of exhaustion and frustration, and a flicker of something else shines through. Affection? Love? Maybe just the desperate hope that this is the turning point, that maybe, just maybe, things will get easier.

But then, the eyes open. The tail starts thumping against the floor like a tiny drum of doom. He stretches, a miniature pretzel of energy, and you see it. The look. The “what can I destroy now?” look. And you know the battle isn’t over. It’s just pausing for a quick ammo reload.

This is the reality behind the cute puppy pictures you see online. The relentless, exhausting, frustrating, sometimes-despair-inducing reality. It’s a full-contact sport, this puppy raising gig. You are tackled, you are bitten, you are peed on, you are sleep-deprived to the point of hallucination. It’s a constant negotiation with a tiny, non-verbal creature who operates purely on instinct and chaos theory. You feel beaten down, worn out, questioning every decision you’ve ever made that led you to this point.

But weirdly? Perversely? You keep going. You clean up the messes. You replace the destroyed items (or just sigh and add them to the growing pile of ‘things the puppy won’t let me have’). You take them out for the umpteenth potty break of the hour. You bribe them with treats for momentary good behavior. Why? I don’t know. Stockholm Syndrome? A deep-seated need for self-punishment? Or maybe, just maybe, buried beneath the mountains of laundry and the acres of chewed-up cardboard, there’s a tiny spark of something genuine. Something that looks a bit like fierce protection mixed with weary fondness.

It’s not the picture-perfect, wagging-tail-on-command scenario you see in the movies. It’s messy. It’s loud. It’s incredibly, fundamentally challenging. You are not training a pet; you are locked in a complex, often losing, wrestling match with a creature of pure, untamed energy. A full moon puppy, indeed. And I’m just trying to survive the night. One chewed-up sock, one surprise puddle, one frantic burst of zoomies at a time. Wish me luck. Or send coffee. Lots and lots of coffee. And maybe a new pair of slippers. And sanity. Definitely sanity. I’m not sure how much of mine is left after being beaten by this little guy for a month.