Got a Dog: Cue Anxiety Attack.

We sold the house.

We celebrated by rescuing a dog: Oliver.  Of COURSE we did!  Moving isn't nearly stressful enough!!  I still have a strand or two of hair left, after all. 

It just happened.  It just... happened.

I mean, we wanted a dog, we said.

Pros:  Kids will have to spend more time outside and less trying to get into the televisions; empathy; they want one; we have a really big yard now;  I've managed to put it off for about 8 years. 

Cons:  We are in the process of actually moving; it's a dog. Wait, we're at the Humane Society?

Oliver is a duck tolling retriever and he was rescued from a high kill shelter.  Pretty much we're going directly to heaven, and the swearword I said about my chairs?  Cancelled out.  You know it. 

He follows me like I'm some kind of genius mentor.  Dogs never follow ME.  They usually know that I think they smell and they are dumb and only the mentally deranged would purchase a dog.  Dogs need baths, and walking, and licenses, and dog sitters and attention and training-  these are things I'm generally morally opposed to giving extra creatures outside of my gaggle of offspring.  (Except that I don't need a license for the kids...  seems..... probably fine. )

But Oliver is here and is gentle and quiet and housebroken and friendly and atrocious on a leash.  Atrocious, Readers:  so incredibly bad...  Basically like putting a cat on a leash and expecting it to go in a straight line.

And the kids love him and Neil loves him and I am having a minor meltdown because he's decided to be MY dog.  Me.  The one who is having an anxiety siezure every time I look at him.  I did not have this much anxiety when they handed me a baby at age 18 and said, "You got a carseat to take him home with?"

So what is the deal with me here?  Is it so terrible that I can't just run off for a carefee weekend of reckless abandon now?  Because like.... I don't think I've ever run off for a weekend of carefree abandon in my life.  Getting a dog just kind of seals the deal, I guess.   It's official. 

At least I could sell it by agreeing that I will rarely, if ever,  have to pick up his poop.  Kid job! *high five self*

I picked up his poop twice today.  *sad trombone*

He's pretty much adorable....  and horrendous on a leash.  Did I mention that?  Horrendous.  The worst.

But he's underweight.  My heart broke into 40 zillion pieces.  UNDERWEIGHT?  *bites fist*

I'm not ready for my life to change again, but obviously, it's too late.  Oliver has arrived.  I guess we might as well jump in with two feet if we're going to change our lives, right? 

Good thing about the vodka I have in my cupboard.  I'll pack that last.  Because we are, after all, moving in the middle of winter.  Why the hell WOULDN'T we rescue a dog?

And the kicker?  Oliver speaks French and sneaks onto the sofa and then looks at me like he has no idea how he got there.  Oh he's sly.

Cute little French Bastard.