I'm an obsessive doggy mommy

It's 8 degrees outside right now. Eight. Freakin' Eight. It's going to be 1 degree when I drive to work tomorrow morning at 6:30 a.m. In fact, it's actually going from 2 degrees at 6 a.m. to 1 degree at 7 a.m. The temperature is going DOWN in the morning. Wtf.

So, to distract myself, I figured I should blog. I mean, I'll fully admit it. I've been slacking. I could blame the fact that we've had guests in town. I mean, after Emily and Travis, we had Jess and her mother in town. Then we had Nathan and Christine in town. Then, this weekend, we had my parents in town (will blog about that visit later). But, as I sat here, looking through all the photos I had taken on my phone to help me with my parents-visiting blog, I noticed something. I'm a little obsessed about my dog.

Now, to understand this blog, I have to tell you a story about my childhood. When I was a kid, I always wanted a dog. I would beg my parents to get a dog. I pleaded with them. My mom insisted that she was allergic. My dad said he was allergic too. Then, my elementary school friend Tommy Thompson (no kidding. That's really his name) told me that his parents used to say they were allergic, but that they were just scared that he wasn't responsible enough to take care of a dog. When he promised to take care of one, they got one. I had my plan.

I had a stuffed Dalmatian that was my favorite stuffed animal at the time. I fashioned a "leash" out of two shoelaces. I grabbed two Tupperware containers out of the highest shelf, made a paper sign (one for food, one for water). I wrapped the leash around that dogs neck and took the "dog" on walks everyday...always announcing my intent as I left the door.

"I'm taking Sassy on a walk now!"

I would leap out of the with "Sassy" dragging behind me, as I glanced over my shoulder to see if they were watching.

After a month of doing this, I began to worry. After taking "Sassy" for walks, after feeding "Sassy" twice a day, after "picking up after Sassy," after all this trouble, I started to think that Tommy was wrong. I finally admitted to my parents my thought process. I told them about Tommy's experience. My mom gently touched my cheek and said,

"I'm sorry Blairy. But, I really am allergic."

I was devastated. I was so angry. I felt so betrayed. How could they have not told me sooner?!? I marched out, screaming like a brat. Looking back on this, that was silly. I mean, they did tell me. I just didn't hear what I wanted to hear, so I ignored them. Two days after this episode, my dad showed up with my first fish, which I named Debbie. I went through 8 Debbies (I was stunningly creative as a child...) All of them, goldfish. I would release them into a nearby lake when my parents told me they were getting too old. I would wave goodbye as they swam out towards the middle of the lake. This was the closest thing I had to a pet until Milo. As I was moving off to college, someone asked me what I was most looking forward to as I moved away. You know what I said?

"I can't wait to get a dog."

The second I moved off campus in my junior year of college, I started searching for a dog. My roommate, Jennifer, really helped me look on petfinder.com. I finally found one that I loved the look of. The picture to your right is the actual photo on petfinder of Milo. The first photo I ever saw of him. I still have it saved to this day. I knew when I saw him that I wanted to adopt him. He had been rescued at the zero hour from Town Lake Animal Kill Shelter. The Central Texas SPCA had saved his life and had put him up for adoption. He was extremely scared of men and even more scared of black people (which was quite alarming considering how diverse my friend-group was). A lady who fostered him had paid for his agility and obedience training in Austin. He was seemingly perfect outside of the scaredy-cat nature.

I took him home and he was happy as a clam. For the first three hours, all he did was run back and forth in the living room, chasing a ball. In fact, this photo on the left, is from the first day I had him. Look. His tail is a blur. He was so happy. The first issues I had was with feeding him. He wouldn't eat until I fed him by hand. Like, a kernel in my hand. At a time. A cup of food took an hour. If I tried to put the food in his bowl, he just backed away from it. He was scared I was going to hurt him. It broke my heart. I mean, look at these photos. Who could hurt him?!?

Then, after the food issues were resolved, he started getting scared of me when I would get home. I still, to this day, have no clue what warranted this response. Some vets said it was his separation anxiety. I still don't know. All I know is I tried everything, it seemed, but it wasn't until I moved in with Christine that he stopped peeing himself the second I walked in the door. This, also, broke my heart. Who had treated him so poorly that he couldn't even trust the hand that fed him. The hand that fed him by hand. For hours. I didn't know what to do. I was starting to truly understand what a parent felt, and I didn't even give birth to the thing.

Christine, I stand by, helped me so much with Milo. There were times I was working two jobs and going to school and taking three classes that had corresponding labs, and she would take him out for me. She would feed him for me. Without Christine, I wouldn't have been a good mommy that year. But, she helped. And I couldn't forget David. Who nearly didn't date me because he found out I had a dog. Then, in a couple of months, he was petting him while I "wasn't looking" and making sure to take him out in the morning when he got up early. I had two surrogate parents, and I owe them greatly.

So, now, we get to the present reason why I'm blogging about this short, Milo history. I was looking through my phone, and I realized that I take a lot of photos of Milo. Mainly because he does the darndest things. You can say "Get out of the kitchen, Milo" and he slowly steps backwards and makes sure to leave one toenail on the tile floor. He realizes that he makes noise with his collar, so to wake us up on a lazy Saturday, he will shake violently, making a cacophony of noise to alert us to his need to urinate. And, as you can tell by the photo, he's a great inside spoon.

All in all, I love my dog. He's my heart. And even when he does stupid things (like eat the entire pizza just leaving a perfect circle of crust on the carpet, or bark unusually lots at the delivery man), I still smile at his ridiculousness. I mean, how could this face not make you smile?