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Wanted: Sister’s best friend (only the four legged need apply)

Did you guys know I want a puppy? I might have mentioned it before.

I think I have My Honey convinced that it would be the perfect gift for the children. Of course, you, Dear Internets, know that what I’ve actually done is convinced my husband to let me find my own Christmas present. This is good for me on so many levels, you can’t possibly know.  Not only would I already know what I’m getting and therefore wouldn’t be forced to resort to snooping like I do every other year. But I’m also guaranteed to get the perfect size and color. See? It’s not like I want to brag or anything, but genius!

However, there are still problems. Let’s assume I find a puppy. Obviously, I’m going to find a puppy, so lets assume the cute little ball of bitey fuzziness is bouncing along with me, it’s silly, little tongue lolling out of it’s mouth. Where am I going to keep this wee bit of adorableness until Christmas? I honestly have no idea. I could take it to work with me for the day but where would it go at night? I couldn’t leave it alone in the office. I just don’t know.

Issue number two. My Honey won’t let me spend any real money on this animal. He likes the idea of free. Well, I love the idea of free, too, some of my best dogs have been free. I don’t know about you but I don’t see “free puppy” signs like I used to. So of course, I’m checking the shelters and the want ads and Craigslist.

I”m not too worried. The universe wants me to have a puppy. I just know it. I’ll keep looking and the rest of the plan will figure it’s self out.

So on that note….

I was at a puppy store that Kelli reminded me of today at lunch. Ava wasn’t with me, which was unusual. I told the clerk what I was looking for and she promised to keep her eyes open and give me a call. Nevertheless, I stopped and petted each and every puppy. Even the ones I wasn’t even remotely interested in. I’m pretty indescriminate that way. I’ll totally admit – I’m a puppy whore.

I paid special attention to one puppy – a mix that would grow up to be a large dog. Not as large as my Sophie or Hugh, my Newfie and St Bernard mix, but around the same size as Roscoe who’s about 65 or 70 lbs.

There was another man in the store, a customer also browsing the puppies, who I’d managed to ignore up to this point.

“Excuse me, miss,” he said, inturrupting my communion with the baby. “I don’t think you want a dog like that.”

I cursed myself for engaging in conversation with him, but I did it anyway. “Oh. Why?”

” Because that dog will be big. I can tell by looking at you that you can’t handle a big dog.”

People always thought Sophie was a bear on a leash

I rolled my eyes. That was totally laughable. Sophie was 185 lbs. Hugh was somewhere around 160. My smallest dog was 76. I live for huge, giant dogs. My cat is bigger than most people’s canines.

“Don’t talk to the Queen.” I shook my head at him.  “You might not know right now because my entourage isn’t with me, but I’m not interviewing for jesters at this time.”

But I am interviewing for a yippy, cuddly companion should you see a likely candidate. My standards are decidedly limp.

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