Lottie is such an asshole.
I feel like, if we could see her agenda, her datebook, it'd just be filled with appointments to annoy us.
Lottie Day Plannur
nyne fifteeeen: try to hump eyeriss.
five ay yam: wyne and skreech in crate. bownce against crate barrs. yap.
I keep thinking about Stanley, and how sedate he was, and WHAT WAS MY PROBLEM? He was big and he was calm and he was great. But NO! Anyway, if I'd kept Stanley, then I'd have found Lottie and I'd have TWO puppies.
Anyway, as those of you who've had puppies before and who aren't in jail for dog abuse know, they run around like assholes and then they pass out, much like fraternity boys.
And as much as she claims to hate that crate, which the Tall Boy finally came over and got down for me, Lottie always finds some kind of cave to sleep in, even if it's just burrowing under the couch pillows. Here she is between the couch and the side table, with her head on said table. Comfy.
Anyway, other than obsess over this puppy, here's what I did this weekend.
On Friday, after work, I went to happy hour with my coworkers. The reason all the drink napkins are wadded up and in the middle of the table is because...
...one of my drinking buddies kept chewing them. Damn you, Bitchy Resting Face Alex and your love of drink napkins.
When I got there, the bartender was all, "Lottie's here!" which is not at all a disturbing statement on my bar-going habits.
On Saturday, we headed over to Wedding Alex's house to see her new place, a truly lovely home in which I spent the whole time convinced Lottie was going to poo on. She didn't. You guys have sent her so many gifts, and if I didn't write to thank you it's because a lot of boxes came with no note, but THANK YOU oh my god. The point is, someone sent her this puppy crack: It's real chicken on a chewy stick. I brought one of those, and Lottie sat at my feet like an actual good dog while I visited with Wedding Alex.
Whoever sent me the real chicken on a chewy stick is my hero. It must have been cold there in my shadow.
You should see the stockpile of puppy food I have. I had to put bags in the closet of the computer room, fmr. Who was it the other day who was baffled by what "fmr." could mean? FORMER. It's an abbreviation of FORMER. See.
I also went to the gym yesterday and did NOT take Lottie to that one. I could be the asswipe who takes her puppy to yoga. As you know, all too well, I walk to the gym, and yesterday when I got there I realized you could hear the racquetballs hitting the wall. Back when Lu was really young, Marvin liked to walk her down there, just to mix up the route, and Tallulah always went berserk when she heard those stupid balls. It bugged her. She'd stand there and HARF! at the wall. I heard those stupid racquetballs and had such a wave of missing my Lu. And of remembering she was an asshole when she was a puppy, as well.
Oh! And SPEAKING of walking places, on Friday when I went to happy hour, I parked in this public lot, and A BIG DOG WITH NO OWNER walked up. He had a collar, and he was a friendly pitty pit, and for a minute there I was all, Mother of God. Now Ima come home with a big-headed pit. Edsel will leap off a bridge. He'll be Edsel Joe McAllister.
Fortunately he belonged to someone who was letting him WANDER AROUND OFF LEASH, and you know how I like that.
I also CLEANED MY PLACE from top to bottom this weekend, because I was letting it get ridiculous, and once my house gets ridiculous I get depressed. So I straightened and I scrubbed and I washed and I cleaned, and as soon as I did, it stormed really bad and the dogs tracked mud in all over.
"The dogs." See? I prefer that in plural. The dogs. The dog never sounded right.
Edsel just had loud gas that filled the room with a cacophony of noise like he was Herb Alpert, over here. What the hell is wrong with me and my chaos-addicted self?
Talk to you TOOT suite.