The Terrible Almost-Threes

Over a year ago, we were relishing the fact that our "teenage" dog was acting like an old soul. While his litter mates were literally chewing the gutters off houses, our Boone-baby was just chilling. The worst we got was he wouldn't always listen to a command on the first go; like 5% of the time, we had to repeat ourselves (the horror!).

Then, he hit his terrible twos. He got a little territorial with his toys and a little moodier if he wasn't exhausted. Once again, compared to those dogs that chew through doors, he wasn't that bad.

Then he turned almost-three. As in, in a week he'll be 2 years 11 months. And he's on my last nerve.

That's his pwease-don't-write-mean-things-I-pwomise-I'll-be-better face

Don't get me wrong, I love my Boo. Always have, always will. He's my best friend. He might be my soulmate. I know my husband feels the same way.

But there are days like today, when I'm standing on the side of the road just screaming at the top of my lungs. The construction workers were staring, and not for the reason I'm used to. What he did wasn't so important, just that he did like 46 different things in the course of a 20 minute walk and he showed no signs of stopping.

This comes only a few days after him stealing a slice of pizza right off my plate and getting pizza sauce all over the rug. Then he ate the whole damn thing.

Now for my pledge: I solemnly swear that I will never judge those moms in the grocery store, having a breakdown by the Teddy Grahams and gunning it for the wine aisle.

We're brethren. 

I've been there.