Wednesday, February 15, 2006

Adoption Tips

Since last we chatted, I wrote a piece about the red car that saved my life and lost a bet that will result in my creating a toast at my own wedding for dear old Shade-- the friend from college who "saved my life." Tonight, the piece I wrote will be critiqued by the divorcees for 45 minutes. I'm not looking forward to it, but I'm wearing my cowboy boots for support. My face will flush spontaneously, even though I'm not nervous, but then I will become nervous because my face is flushed and everyone can tell. So if all that's going to happen, forcing me to stare at my shoes, they might as well be cute shoes.

In other news, we are the proud pre-parents of a puggle. Let me explain. Or, let me sum up.

We trekked to the Montgomery County animal shelter last week and discovered not one but two puggles. We, along with all of Rockville, submitted applications for both. We were fifth in line for the girl and fourth for the boy. Cheri, the office manager, assured us that stranger things have happened. "There's always a chance!" She sang. We did not get our hopes up. Until Friday at 5:00 when I learned that we had become #1 on the list for the male (seen above). I was advised that we meet him as soon as possible to avoid being bumped off the list by a Montgomery County resident. "Can you get here by 7?" I thought we could. Armed with peanut butter granola bars, water bottles and adrenaline, we raced down to Rockville. About half an hour into the trip, The Boy interrupted me.

"Do you smell that?" He asked. I had just popped in a piece of gum. Couldn't smell a thing. I kept talking.

""Do you hear that? " He asked, turning down the Jimmy Eat World cd I was happily singing along with. "I think my bearing is going." I didn't know what he was talking about, but I did know it was already 6:00. He pulled into an affluent neighborhood to inspect his tire-- rear passenger, flat, melting and shredded. I asked him if he need my help. He didn't. In a matter of minutes, I was tilting to the left, then seated flat and the new tire was on. Seriously, it took him a total of four minutes. Now that's a man you marry.

We managed to make it to the shelter to see Mosotos (no, The Boy still won't budge on that name). The dog couldn't really be bothered with either of us (except for the time The Boy swears he whispered, "Mosotos" to him, causing him to jump up to be pet. "He knows his name." Ugh.) The dog coughed and wheezed and we were assured he would get better as soon as he got out of the shelter. I just wanted to make sure he got neutered before he got out of the shelter. Later, I mentioned it to The Boy, who wasn't aware the dog was "unaltered." "How did you know?" He asked, and I told him I saw.

"Yes!" He said, "That's my little Mosotos. He's got big cajones."

Really, I don't have a chance.

The biggest lesson we've learned in all of this is never to compare this process to that of adopting a child. At dinner with our caterer the other night, we ran into acquaintances from The Boy's bartending days. "So, we're trying to adopt this dog," he says, making conversation, "but the process makes it harder than adopting a child!"

"Actually," Randi said, glancing at her husband, "we're trying to do that right now. And I guarantee you it's not harder."

Ouch. Anyone know where we can find an inner monologue electric fence?

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