Baby Argos: The Story of the Most Pitiful Puppy of All
When we picked up Luna and Argos, they were fat, squirmy little babies. They were the biggest puppies I'd ever seen, like polar bear stuffed animals come to life. They lived the first few weeks of their life in a barn surrounded by sheep, and you could smell it on them. We gave them a bath that night, and every single week that month, and with each bath, the smell of wet sheep slowly dissipated.
Luna was the precocious one: she was smart and bigger than Argos, unafraid to explore when we took them outside. Argos, on the other hand, curled up in my brother's lap and immediately went to sleep on the car ride home from the breeder. While Luna observed from the corners of rooms to protect us, Argos was always squished up against our side, sleeping.
Since he was a puppy, Argos has always been the clingiest dog in the history of dog-kind. But there is a very depressing backstory that transforms his neediness from annoying to pitiful. A Disney-movie-esque tragedy struck Argos' little family when he was just a few hours old: his mother snuck out of the barn and crawled under the porch to give birth to him and his siblings. The owner couldn't find her, and it started to rain. The space under the porch flooded, and Argos was the only puppy that the mother could rescue. By the time the owner discovered the emergency, it was too late for the rest of his siblings. (I know—it just makes you want to cry looking at those pitiful little eyes now, doesn't it?)
Given this backstory, we gave baby Argos a little more leniency than the rest of our dogs growing up. The first few nights we had the Pyrs, Argos cried and whined for hours when we put them in their cage to sleep for the night. Luna slept away, but Argos let his pitiful puppy voice sing through the house, as if he was being abandoned in the middle of dark woods rather than in the half-lit hallway a few steps from his humans.
Actual photo of Argos that first night, circa 2013.
Unable to bear the cries of baby Argos, we gave him the privilege of sleeping in a human bed those first few nights. He snuggled up against my side, little puppy paws pressed into my skin as he fell asleep. Argos, as a 10 lb baby or as a 100 lb adult, has never been a good sleeping partner. I woke up in the middle of the night to his eyes staring straight into mine, and he licked me on the nose.
Eventually, he outgrew his need to sleep next to his humans every night. He stopped being such a pain when he went outside and was too timid and easily distracted to go to the bathroom. We can leave a room, and he doesn't follow us.
But Argos will always be that pitiful baby. If you sit down anywhere near him, he still climbs into your lap. He still tries to sleep in my bed, staring at me with those big sad eyes, begging not to be kicked out. He still nudges you with his giant head until you pet him. And he still whines—not tinny puppy cries, but adult Great Pyrenees howls—when he doesn't want to be alone.
And that is the story of Baby Argos, the most pitiful puppy of all.
