My dog, Margaret, has developed a very annoying habit of squeaking and crying at night–particularly between the hours of 12:30 and 2 am. OK, so “habit” isn’t really the right word. She did it last night and she’s starting up again as I type. Our house is chock full of people so there is really nowhere I can put her where someone won’t be bothered by her sniveling.
Last night I let her out at 12:30. And again at 1:00. And again at 2:15. I thought she might have eaten some Easter chocolate (very bad for dogs) and had the runs. Instead she just took advantage of her midnight frolic to bark hello to all the other dogs in the neighborhood. I resorted to the whisper-scream trying to get her to shut up and come inside already. The last thing I need is to rile up Officer Larry (not his real name), a gen-u-wine cop and our next door neighbor. He is already sullen, cross and none-too-pleased with our noisy family (especially when we are enjoying the trampoline at 8 am). Officer Larry usually has a toothpick sticking out of the side of his mouth and never wears shirts with sleeves unless he is on duty. He spends an enormous amount of time in the driveway cleaning out his squad car. (Trying to impress the criminals with his tidy vehicle, I suppose.) Call me paranoid, but I don’t think he looks kindly on us. Don’t want to find out for sure.
So Maggie* is being a real pain. And what insane idea keeps going through my head? That I need another dog; that getting one more pet will somehow make my life better. Yes, it’s ridiculous idea. It’s this kind of nonsensical reasoning that explains why I have six children.
But I’m perusing the ads from shelters and classifieds anyway. I fell madly in love with one dog in Salt Lake (KSL classifieds are like a drug). It’s a combination of my two favorite dogs: a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel (which is what Maggie is) and a pug (which is what out last dog was). If that dog were here in Texas it would be curled up in my house at this very moment. Thank goodness it’s not. Because I don’t want a dog. But really I do. But really I don’t. Puppies are awful. But then again . . . . See what I mean? Insanity. Look how adorable, though. I mean, the sweetest dog ever!
* Her real name is Margaret but we’ve always called her Maggie. I’m trying to discourage that because the vet told me that Maggie is one of the most popular dog names. And I cannot abide a popular name. That’s the kind of fallout that occurs when you let your husband name the dog. Last week I tried to convince Mister to phase into to calling her Maisie, which is much cuter and more unusual. It’s practically the same name. But not. It’s much better. He didn’t go for it. At least our dog is not named Max or Bailey. We know at least three dogs called each of those names. No offense if you have a Max or Bailey. Chances are that you do, in fact.
P.S. I will be having copious amounts of fun for the next few days and probably not blogging. So you’ll just have to sit tight and be Jennie-free for a while.