Yes, we got a dog.
The comment I keep getting is "Isn't your life crazy enough? Did you really need a dog?"
No. But my Dear Husband could sell milk to a cow. Persistent doesn't even BEGIN to describe it.
So here she is, beside me on the couch, all snuggly, clean, warm puppy. Because I just gave her a bath. Because she pooped in her crate. Because I took five minutes to make The Spider Monkey a peanut butter sandwich (I know he's only 2 1/2, what are you going to do about it?). Because apparently if I actually get to take a shower before noon, it will be rendered moot by flying dog poo as I hose out said crate.
But when I watch her lick The Doodlebug until he giggles so hard I think he could have potentially peed a little, and when The Spider Monkey uses her as a pillow and she lets him, I realize it's not about me. It's about a boy (or three) and his dog.
At least she's a girl. I need all the estrogen I can get around here. I'm totally going to buy her a pink t-shirt. And, in existence is a signed contract, guaranteeing moi two afternoons a week to write sans children in exchange for one puppy.
Works for me.