Tuesday, February 2, 2010


I'm still loving our new pup. Mostly. She is still cute and docile and sweet, but I think I'm finally on to her game. She pretty much does what she wants, and I'm starting to think that she believes she is feline with the level of ignoring that's going on.
First thing in the morning when I call her to go out, she is all joy and ear-flapping, and trots right out there. By night time however, she's kind of like the Man after a long day of work: dragging around, creaky. I call her to go out, no response. I call her again, and I see maybe an eyeball flitter. I repeat my half of this dance endlessly, and she rotates between looking bored, and digging further into the couch. I then walk over to her, my voice growing ever higher pitched, as I attempt to convince her that going outside to pee in 14 degree weather is, in fact, a really super fun idea. She of course does not buy this, but does raise her head enough to indicate that petting would be acceptable now.
I then take her by the collar (gently, I swear) and attempt to lead her (read: drag) from the couch. This is where her Gandhi skills emerge, as she flops to her side in a passive aggressive stance. No amount of squeakyness on my part will prompt her to get up and walk to the door. I give up, pick the tiny thing up and go plop her out the door.
If that was painful to read, then take heart, because you got the easy part. This process being repeated every night is so stinking ex.as.per.ating. On another note, we've changed her name from Phoebe to Harper. I'm no longer worried about confusing her with this change, because she clearly could care less how we address her, so long as she doesn't have to move. And when it comes to cool pet names, I think Harper is the cat's pajamas of beagle names. (See what I did there?) My literary nerd euphoria was short-lived, however, when the Princess said, "Oh cool, Harper! Just like on Wizards of Waverly Place!" (Why yes, I did just die a little inside, thanks for asking.)
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