Muffin’s Blog: Puppy Watch – Weeks 3 & 4

High Society? I Barely Remember Her.

Wouf!

It’s me again — Muffin. Former connoisseur of fine naps, destroyer of plush squeaky toys, and once described as having “the attitude of a spoiled daughter in a 1920s estate.” These days? I’m mostly wearing eau de puppy spit-up and wondering how anyone survives this many squeaky mouths with dignity intact.

I thought motherhood would be more… photogenic. I imagined tasteful baskets and sleepy smiles. Instead I’ve become a walking milk bar with anxiety.

Welcome to Week 3 and 4 of the Puppy Watch. Yes, we are documenting everything — it’s important the world knows what I’ve been through.

---

Week 3: Wobbly Legs & First Fangs

The week began in peace. Too much peace, in fact — which I now understand was ominous foreshadowing.

Then came the teeth.

Tiny, evil little nubs, sharp enough to pierce the veil of any romantic notions I had left about “puppy breath.” I was enjoying a quiet stretch when someone latched onto my ear like it owed him money. The teething had begun. 🦷

Now, I’m no stranger to chewing — I’ve had a go at Leo’s shoes, nibbled on Ninnu’s chow when she wasn’t looking (and occasionally when she was), and like my darling daughter Tessa, I harbour a particular weakness for wool socks. And I don’t mean casually nibbling them when they fall on the floor — oh no. When I was younger, I used to sneak into the boys’ clothes locker, dig through their sock baskets, and excavate the wool socks from the very bottom. Every time. The cotton ones? Scattered across the room like casualties. But the wool socks? Always made their way to the sofa in the living room, where I could admire them properly. That’s not theft — that’s curation.

But these little beasts? They don’t chew. They chomp. On everything. On me. On each other. I had to start doing drive-by lickings just to get them to unclamp from one another. If they ever discover the treasure trove of shoes in the atrium… well, let’s just say the humans will learn the true meaning of the word “debacle.”

At least they’re mobile now. Sort of. Week 3 marked the first official attempts at walking. Imagine five tiny fluff sausages trying to stand upright on pudding. They flopped, rolled, got tangled up in their own paws… and celebrated each faceplant like they’d just won gold. One even made it from one side of the blanket to the other without tipping over. I gave him a solid maternal nod. That’s the Muffin gene in action.

Somehow I still managed to get them to nap at the same time. Once. For six minutes. I used that time to stare into the void and remember the sound of silence.

---

Week 4: Wrestlemania, Mush, and the Poop Rebellion

Week 4 arrived like a storm in a teacup. They’re not wobbling anymore — they’re charging, growling, and trying to pounce like they’re starring in a Bolonka reboot of The Lion King.

Let’s discuss the “growls.” I use the term loosely. These aren’t fierce dog noises — they’re more like a soft “r” being revved in a tiny engine. It's not threatening. It's… faintly ridiculous. But try telling that to a puppy standing on a sibling’s head and growl-humming like a chainsaw powered by whipped cream.

^Luna

They’ve also started barking. Actual barks! Very, very tiny barks. Some sound like distant hiccups. Most of the time, it’s whimpers — especially if someone’s lost track of a teat or got out-wrestled for the plush sock. Still, I humor them. A mother must encourage, even if her ears are being ambushed.

Lately, some of the puppies have also developed a fascination with pants legs — they like to latch on and tug at them like prey, shaking their little heads like they’ve caught something wild. It’s very dramatic. Also very inconvenient if Daddy is trying to walk.

And now for the scandal: they’ve begun pooping like professionals — and sitting on it.

Yes. Some of them have adopted a strategy where, immediately after doing their business, they simply… plant themselves on top of it. Like they’re declaring sovereignty, or perhaps just confused about how chairs work. Mommy and Daddy were, understandably, alarmed. So came… the bath. Or, more accurately, a gently undignified faucet rinse.

^{Severus, Remus & Sirius}

Each pup got their turn under the stream — a modest, spa-like trickle, not a torrent. I watched from a safe distance. Most of them didn’t care in the slightest. Luna, Bellatrix, Sirius, and Remus handled it like stoic little gremlins, even when their paws were scrubbed. But Severus? Oh no. The moment water touched his white-blotched belly, he unleashed a yelp of betrayal loud enough to wake the cat three houses over. The drama! You’d think Daddy was rinsing him in vinegar.

I gave him a sympathetic look. Then turned away before he could demand cuddles. I have standards.

---

Mornings: The Ritual of the Poop Minefield and Toe Gnawing

Now, a word about our mornings. The pups have decided that 3 a.m. is ideal for bodily functions. By sunrise, the nursery floor has transformed into what Daddy calls “the Bolonka Demilitarized Zone.” It’s a minefield of droppings — strategic, sneaky, and alarmingly frequent.

And Daddy? Poor soul. He has dry eyes, you see — partly from life, mostly from the medicine he has to take twice a week — and so each morning, he blindly shuffles through the poop field like a clumsy stork in fog, whispering “Please no, please no, please no…” with each step. I watch from the bed, dignified but secretly amused. He did choose to co-parent with a Bolonka, after all.

^Remus

But the minefield is not the worst part.

The worst part is what happens when he lowers his feet to the floor.

Five puppies — roughly foot-sized, head to tail — launch themselves at his toes like heat-seeking chew missiles. 🐾 There is no delay. No hesitation. Just direct, unfiltered toe-chomping joy. The moment his heel touches down, the first one is already latched on, and the others follow like tiny, fuzzy backup dancers in a very odd musical.

Daddy tries to fend them off. He lifts a foot, they circle. He shifts to the other, they pounce again. It's like watching a poorly choreographed fencing match between one exhausted human and five determined sock-goblins. Honestly, it's the most exercise he gets all day.

^Sirius

---

And one more thing... My puppies have names now. It seems the humans have taken a rather magical turn with their choices:

• The brown girl is Luna (sweet, slightly mystical),
• The black girl is Bellatrix (already sharpening her teeth),
• The boy with hind dewclaws is Remus (gentle and slightly tragic),
• The boy with the white chest blotch is Severus (see: dramatic faucet episode),
• And the final black boy is Sirius (bit of a rebel, bit of a cuddler).

I have no objections, as long as they don't start calling me “Professor Muffin”. Although, I suppose I am running a kind of school… in hygiene, wrestling etiquette, and not sitting on one's own poop.

---

So there you have it. Weeks 3 and 4: a blur of teeth, paws, poop, and toe ambushes. I don’t remember signing up for this part of dog motherhood, but here I am — hair unbrushed, dignity in tatters, heart full.

I may have once believed I was born to recline on velvet cushions and bark once for pâté, but… puppy kisses are their own kind of luxury. Especially the clean ones.

Now if you'll excuse me, I think I hear suspicious rustling… again. If anyone needs me, I’ll be standing in the doorway, sighing like a Victorian governess and wondering which one just pooped behind the towel basket.

Yours wearily but with love,
Muffin
Matriarch. Survivor. Unwilling Bath Supervisor.

---