HOW I MET AMELIA POND AT A FOOTBALL GAME

 

IMG_9317It is a truth universally acknowledged that a farmer at a football game with a puppy in tow must be in want of a new owner for said puppy.

Eat your heart out, Jane Austen. (Clearly, the hiatus from writing has not been good for my creativity. My apologies.)

True story: at our son’s last football game of the season, I spotted a couple holding an adorable black and white puppy in their arms.

Now, here’s the thing. I don’t like dogs. I LOVE dogs. I love dogs like some people love babies. I turn into a squealing coochy-coochy-coo WHO’S A GOOD BOY? YOU’RE A GOOD BOY! mess of a human that immediately makes anybody within a ten-mile radius embarrassed to be near me.

MYNDI. LOVES. DOGS.

So basically what this couple was holding was a tiny, wet-nosed, floppy-eared tractor beam that pulled me in like a moth to the flame.

They see me coming a mile away and before the words, “Cute puppy!” are out of my mouth, Mr. Farmer says, “Would you like to hold her?”

I would like to say that I calmly walked to them and gently took the puppy from his arms, but the truth is I all but pole-vaulted over the fence and snatched the puppy away from him like Gollum finding the One Ring. We wants it, my preciousssssssssss…..

OH, MY GOD, SHE WAS SO SOFT. AND WARM. AND SWEET. AND FLUFFY. AND BASICALLY ALL THAT IS GOOD AND PERFECT IN THE WORLD.

“Would you like to take her home?” Mr. Farmer asks.

*cue the Hubster’s groan*

“Are you serious?” I ask, trying to be chill, but inwardly freaking the heck out.

IMG_9134“Yeah. Trying to find her a good home.”

I glance at the Hubster. I can tell by the expression on his face he’s already conceded defeat.

Me: “We’ll take her.” Whispers in her ear, “Come along, Pond.”

And that is the story of how Amelia Pond came home with us after our son’s last football game. It’s been five months since she became my shadow, and she is still just the perfect little gal.

Sorry, Doctor, this companion’s mine.

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SMELLS LIKE DISAPPOINTMENT

barkboxWillie Nelson really wants me to start a Bark Box account.

“It’s not for me,” he says. “It’s for Ginny-Nanna. She’s getting older, and it would be so nice to spoil her with a treat in the mail every month.”

“Right,” I say back. “You wouldn’t be interested at all in the treats and toys that would come in the box.”

“Well,” he replies. “If she asked that I, you know, break in a chew toy for her or make sure the dog treats aren’t poisonous before she tries them, it’d be rude for me to tell her no.” He pauses a moment to lick his genitals. His gaze darts up to mine. “You wouldn’t want me to be rude.”

“You’re gross. Stop that.”

“I’m a dog.” He shrugs.

“We’re not getting Bark Box,” I say. “It’s nineteen bucks a month for the cheap box. I’m not made of money, you furry fool.” I scratch him under the collar. He groans in pleasure, like a monkey who managed to nab a lit cigarette at the zoo.

ginnynanna“You blow fifty bucks a month on bum covers for the hairless one. Did you know she tries to choke me to death?”

“That’s called a hug.”

“And she drools on my kibble while I’m trying to eat. And she uses Ginny-Nanna as a stepping stool.” He pauses for dramatic effect. “And did you know she doesn’t even bark at the mailman?” 

“The mailman you want to bring you treats in the mail every month?”

He ignores this comment. “Fifty bucks, poof! Gone! Just so the little scream machine can eliminate! If you would train her to go out-of-doors like me and Ginny-Nanna we could afford the DELUXE Bark Box! Think of all the treats and balls and bones and toys for me, me, me!” His tail is out of control at the thought, rocking his body back and forth so violently he’s teetering on the edge of falling over.

I coax him into a sitting position so he doesn’t hurt himself. “You mean for Ginger, right? You want the Bark Box for her.”

“Yeah. For Ginny-Nanna. Hey, where is she, anyway? I haven’t chewed on her ears in like, ten minutes.” Resumes licking his genitals.

“We’re not exchanging Alice’s diapers for a Bark Box.”

He abandons his genitals in favor of chewing on his tail while muttering something about favoritism and the agony of being placed with an unjust and cruel family.

“What’s that, Willie Nelson?” I demand, hands on my hips.

“Nothing,” he mutters. He stands up and stretches, farting a little as he does. He sticks his nose in the air and sniffs. “Smells like disappointment.”

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