Puppy Padding

Puppy Problems

Marshall carefully raised the door to his house. He took a look in each direction before taking off as fast as his legs could carry him. He thought about how funny it would be when Chase realized Marshall had become an earlier bird than him.

Of course, there was no one to blame Chase for sleeping at four in the morning, a couple hours before they had to be up for real. That was why Marshall chose this time.

His sheets flew behind him as he took the long way around the lookout. The last thing he needed was to wake up Chase by taking the windway path into the elevator. If Chase smelled his sheets, it would be all over.

Marshall rubbed his eyes, wishing the process didn't take so long. But he took no chances. He didn't want anyone to know about his nighttime troubles. For the last six weeks he had been waking up to the same old mess, and he could blame his rig all he wanted (That worked on the others the first time, but he didn't want to get caught lying. That was worse than lying itself.) but the truth was plain and ordinary to him. This sort of thing happened when he was stressed or worried. And it only seemed to make him worry more, turning it into a cycle until whatever he worried about at the time blew over. It practically torture him, but he'd learned to live with it.

As he tossed his wet sheets into the wash for the billionth time, he wondered, also for the billionth time, why he didn't just tell the Paw Patrol. Ryder would certainly understand. He could help the other pups to understand.

But Marshall didn't want to face it. Not after the mess his psychological disorder got him into the last time it came to light.

He rested against the washing machine, listening to the hum and feeling the rumble. It helped him calm down and stay awake. He didn't need to fall asleep and risk someone walking in without his knowing it.

He knew he could trust the Paw Patrol. He knew he could trust them not to laugh or be mad. But the first time was one thing. If it kept happening...Marshall couldn't stand to bother them with his own mundane troubles. They needed their rest. He knew what to do, even if it interrupted his sleep cycle. He knew all the ways of keeping his secret.

Of course, there was one other method he wasn't ready to turn back to yet...

It only seemed to make things worse.

As Marshall pondered how something so harmless as PBD could turn his life upside down, his thoughts turned, not for the first time, to his housemates. The others would understand. He knew tat. he knew they were good pups. While his lack of sleep made him clumsier, they had the patience and energy to deal with him. They never complained when he made a mistake. They were such good pups, good friends, and Marshall couldn't help feeling like he didn't deserve them.

This was one of the many reasons why he couldn't tell them. Not about his disorder. Not about his past. Not about...everything. Everything he missed.

So why didn't he tell them?

Was he afraid to bother them? They were such good friends and did so much for him already. He couldn't stand to bug them any further with his own stupid troubles. He just needed to be  a better pup, that's all. And that started with this. He knew how to take care of it himself. They didn't need to know.

And there was something wheedling at him every time he thought about telling. If he did tell, what would they think then? They had already been so good to him, no complaints about his clumsiness, always offering to include him or look after him. They were so good, Marshall didn't need to take advantage of that. They were sure to be annoyed, at least, when he explained himself to them.

Would they think of him as a bad pup for all that had happened? Would their patience run thin? Marshall already caused them enough trouble. He didn't need to give them anymore. Not when he already did such a bad job of giving back to them.

How could they possibly till put up with him after everything? And how could that patience possibly withstand what was going through his head?

How could they like him?

A ding brought Marshall out of his thoughts and he moved his sheets to the dryer. The whole process took an hour and a half, leaving him just a little time to sleep...if his thoughts didn't keep him awake.

Every time this happened, Marshall found himself thinking abut his past, and how this disorder had turned his life around for the worse. He thought about his present and how amazed he was that all the other pups could put up with clumsy, problematic little him? He thought about the possible outcomes of coming out to them.

Marshall couldn't live with himself if he caused them another problem. How many of the other pups caused as many problems as him? None!

So his thoughts kept him awake. At least it seemed to keep him from soaking his sheets.

Just another problem to add to the list.

When his sheets were finally done, Marshall trudged back outside and snuck back into his puphouse. He rested his head, and let his heavy eyelids fall closed. But he couldn't sleep.

All those thoughts running through his head...adding up all the problems he caused and all the problems he might cause and all the reasons he had to keep it to himself...Worrying him and stressing him further.

All it did was seem to make things worse. The spreading wet spot underneath him told him that much.

Luckily, Ryder had decided that it was laundry day, and all the pups were more than wiling to help, despite the machine being able to do it all itself. Marshall had left no clues behind and came to the sorrowful conclusion that he had become an amazing liar.

When Ryder assured the pups that there was no more work to be done, a much-awaited outdoor playtime ensued. Marshall went back to his house and sniffed around, looking for one...specific...item.

Finally he emerged from his pillow with a leather book in his mouth and snuck away to his special spot. It was easy for him to squeeze into that hollow tree, listening to the running water of a nearby river. But today, that sound only made him want to fold his puppy ears closed.

Back to his book. He found that writing all his problems down helped him sort them out, or at least get them out of his head...temporarily. Could this go on? It was only a wet bed. it wasn't going to kill anyone if Marshall could fix it himself. No one had to know, not if he was able to clean up all the clues. It was his problem, not theirs. He didn't need to give them anymore problems.

He was already such a problem himself, he wished he knew how much patience they had. Maybe that would help him learn to be more like them.

Good pups...pups who didn't mess everything up for their friends.

He shook his head, and started sketching instead. He needed some Me Time.

Here in his special spot, he didn't have to worry about messing up missions...or trying his friends patience...or adding anymore problems...or wondering how much longer they could stay friends when all he did was...nothing. Nothing for them. And there were plenty of other fire pups they could choose from. Why him?

And when would these thoughts leave him alone?

And WHY did he always feel like he was setting himself up for failure somehow?