Before I really get into talking about Gatsby, I need to talk about the process leading up to him. And that story starts twenty one years ago, with a fourteen year old (admittedly he was not always fourteen, but he was always a grumpy old man to me) black cockapoo named Cody. Cody was two years older than me, and never liked me half as much as I adored him. My first word was his name; “Here, Cody!”, “Cody, sit!”, “Cody, no! Don’t drag the baby out by her bald and oddly shaped head.”
Cody was for the most part a well-behaved dog, his obedience school diploma was framed over his food dish, but he was also a little snit. He’d hide behind the couch when he was tired (of me), poop in the living room when he was displeased (at my father), and whine when the car slowed down. My earliest memory is when he bit me when I pulled his tail.
I don’t have a lot of heartwarming memories of him, he never mystically knew when I had a bad day or let me dress him up (there is one picture of him in a Christmas sweater, and he is snarling his little heart out), but I was head over heels for that dog.
Gatsby is a weird dog. He growls to himself nearly constantly, draws on the windows with his nose, and barks at leaves, but he also lays outside the bathroom door until I’m done with my shower, lays down practically on top of me, and goes absolutely nuts when I come home (complete with excitement pee). I have a dog, and that beats every single con and downside you can throw my way.