He Fights Dirty. I Fight Dirtier.
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
burghbaby

I am a cat person. It's not that I don't like dogs, it's that cats are easier. I'm not the one who takes care of litter boxes or food or anything around here, so cats are like fuzzy little friends who I can ignore or hang out with whenever I please. We could have ten of them and I wouldn't care because they don't effect me in any way.

Dogs, on the other hand, can't be ignored. They demand my attention, which, WTH? Do I *look* like I want to pet you right now? Unless your name is Adam Levine, I DON'T. Dogs make me let them out, they demand that I acknowledge their existence, and we have to carefully plot any attempts at going out of town because I can't just lock them in the basement with a big bowl of food and some water like I can cats.

Cats are better than dogs. It's a fact.

Which is why I was perfectly happy with the idea of staying a one-dog family after Meg passed away. Mr. Husband, however, never met a fuzzy (or scaly or slimy, for what it's worth) thing he didn't want to keep. He collects animals like other people collect Precious Moments figurines. Or at least he tries to. I am an evil wife and manage to control the pet population in our house through the effective use of nagging, whining, and pure stubbornness.

I was prepared to fight to keep the dog population at one around here. FIGHT. KICKING AND SCREAMING.

I wasn't prepared to go to battle with someone who fights dirty, though.

I don't know exactly when it started, but I do know that some of the ammunition was created by the short person herself. Alexis was ready to go get a puppy the day Meg died, so it wasn't really surprising when she started asking pretty much daily.

It was surprising when she started to get breed specific with her begging.

I smelled a rat.

The rat stopped bothering to hide his shenanigans after a few days. It seems that SOMEONE had made it a habit to run google searches for various breeds and show Alexis the puppies. SOMEONE was telling her things like, "Isn't that Old English Bulldog puppy cute?" SOMEONE was fighting dirty.

I ignored the shenanigans. I am strong. In a cage fight, those two would lose to the power that is me and my Mom Glare.

But then I realized something. As Mr. Husband continued to seek out available puppies, his choices in breeds had become more . . . not good. The dogs were bigger, shed more, were more mentally unstable, drooled more, were lazier, and were BIGGER. Did I mention that they kept getting bigger? Because they did. The word "sheepdog" was thrown around one day, even.

If there is one thing I don't need, it's a big dog. I don't do big. Big = big poops. Big = taking up my ENTIRE couch instead of just one cushion. Big = 200 pounds of dog trying to convince me that it fits in my lap. That's how it works, you know. No matter what I do, the dogs in our house end up thinking I am their lord and savior and they harass the heck out of me 24/7. BIG = BAD. FOR ME.

I had to do something.

Twenty minutes after realizing I was going to get suckered into something I didn't want, I had found just the right breeder. I emailed a link of available puppies to Mr. Husband and *BAM.* The next day he had paid a deposit and the deal was done.

Obviously, we picked Penny up over the weekend.

Penny is a Tibetan Terrier.

But you knew that, right? ;-)

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