Last week when my brother asked if I was interested in adopting a pug that needed a home, I scoffed at the idea of a second dog. Surround sound snorting, are you kidding me? That sounds as appealing as finally washing my week-old dirty dishes. But the more I thought about it, the better the idea sounded.
After all, Daisy is 12 and not getting any younger. People, when my girl dies I’m going to hit rock bottom. Is that morbid to worry how you’ll handle your pet’s death? Because it’s something I’ve been starting to concern myself with this past year. If I get a second dog now, will it make things easier when she goes?
Not to mention Daisy might just enjoy someone to boss around all day. I could name the dog after RLO just to piss him off. Which, by the way, if pissing RLO off were an Olympic sport I would fucking take Michael Phelps to the ground. Fourteen gold medals, pfff, I could accomplish that before my morning coffee.
Ben hasn’t heard back from the people that were trying to place the pug, which probably means they’ve changed their minds or found another home for the puppy. Meanwhile I’m cruising adoption sites and classifieds for the perfect mate for Daisy.
Internet, this is where you come in… talk me out of this, and fast. If I become a single girl with two dogs, I’m only one step away from learning to knit my own clothing, and collecting Precious Moment figurines