puppy whipped

Anyone who knows me well, knows well that I do not care for dogs. Which is to say that I love dogs, so long as they are not mine. A well behaved dog that someone else takes care of is my idea of a "good dog." I don't mind your dog unless your dog falls into the yappy-jumpy-nose-between-the-thighs-greeting-type dog that I think is best left to the elements.

That said, the wife and I, over the weekend, got a dog. This was not my idea. As I said, I do not like dogs. Except at the pound. I love pound dogs. The smart ones put on the orphan eyes and become the most sweet, affectionate creatures in god's creation. These are my kind of dog: cared for by others, friendly to me and separated from my soft spots by a wire fence.

The wife and I went to the pound because I promised her that when we got a house, she could get a dog. I was hoping that putting the onus of actually getting the dog on her would ensure that no dog would ever live in my home. This strategy worked for ten months. When the wife didn't get a puppy for our fourth wedding anniversary, I think she got the hint: no dog would live in our house because I, her husband, brought it in unprompted. She has taken matters into her own hands, and I now have a dog. Shit.

Who names a dog Floyd anyway? I was moving from cage to cage in the dog area of the humane society here in Omaha, getting acquainted with the various strays, orphans and rejected canines giving them hope and some doggy talk when the wife grabs my sleeve and says, "Forget these, I found the perfect dog."

The wife has a habit toward hyperbole. I don't count in numbers, but I can say that on more than one occassion she has had the "worst day, ever," seen the "cutest baby in the world," and "fallen in love with the best puppy in the universe." So I had not the highest hopes for whatever mutt she had found on that day. There, in kennel 11 was Floyd. Seriously, who names a dog Floyd? I did have to admit that Floyd had a lot of what I was looking for: he was small enough that the cats, in concert, could probably take him, he was a quiet soul in the company of some dogs that just didn't know how to get adopted (hint: shut the fuck up for a minute and lick my hand), and he was friendly without being too needy -- and kinda cute to boot.

"Don't you just love him?" she asked. I had to admit, love was not the thing that came to mind, but this wasn't my project. If she loved him, I could tolerate him and that was about as far, at that moment, as I was willing to go. She filled out all the paperwork, stood in line and waited around. It was getting toward close, so we told the volunteer that we would come back the next day.

Sunday, we returned to the pound and the wife was certain: she had spent the whole night thinking, hoping and dreaming about a dog named Floyd. This was the dog for her. We put our name on the waiting list, and a couple hours later walked out with a Parson Terrier mix mutt named Floyd.

We considered whether we should change his name. Dogs are kinda dumb, and so was this dog's name. If we started calling him another name, I don't think he would notice or care -- so long as we had liver snaps.

We loaded up on dog supplies and took Floyd to the house. The dog had not made a peep. This is not a barker. I wonder if he's mute. We played with him, got him acquainted with the house and his crate, apologized to the cats for allowing an interloper into their sphere, and after a long walk collapsed, all of us, for a good night sleep. I woke up smelling like dog. I'm now one of them, one of you perhaps, a fucking dog owner.

And he's sooooo cute!