I have a pug. His name is Babar. He's fawn with black sprinkles, and he's the son of Satan.
Technically, his father is a massive rolly-polly mound of fawn-ness called Sherman, but I know, and Babar knows, that evil impregnated his mother that fateful day.
Before Babar entered my life, I was carefree. I enjoyed long naps on my couch (which, at that time, was located in the most logical place - the Living Room). I walked barefoot around my apartment. I left the front door open so my friend, The Breeze, could come in and chat. I ate ice cream and homemade chocolate chip cookies while sitting cross legged on the floor. I played music and danced around naked at 2 AM in the morning.
Then it all changed.
I decided, probably during a sugar high, that I wanted a dog. And not just any dog - a pug. Why did I want a pug? They seemed cute. Had I ever met a pug before? Nope. Did I know how to take care of a pug? Nope. Had I any clue in all frakkin' hell what I was getting myself into? Not a dang clue. But being the sometimes brainless gal that I am, I launched into my search for the perfect pug.
I found him.
Once his big buggy eyes stared at me in confusion, and he attempted to climb up my cleavage, I was gone. I spent the next hour drilling The Boyfriend's ear about how ah-I-can't-speak-because-I-just-wanna-scream cute The Pug's nose was - all 2 indented-into-his-skull millimeters of it.
Since then, I have been living in the Bowels of Hell. To those of you naughty enough to eventually drop by, let me tell you - the Bowels of Hell isn't all that bad. I can live with extremely lethal poo, a makeshift carpet of dead leaves and twigs, and dog toys placed in military strategic positions in order to render the most damage to the enemy (usually me, and sometime The Boyfriend). But I have been cursed. And this week I realized how controlled I have become by this DevilSpawn: I went to visit a breeder to buy myself another pug, so Babar could have a playmate.
Technically, his father is a massive rolly-polly mound of fawn-ness called Sherman, but I know, and Babar knows, that evil impregnated his mother that fateful day.
Before Babar entered my life, I was carefree. I enjoyed long naps on my couch (which, at that time, was located in the most logical place - the Living Room). I walked barefoot around my apartment. I left the front door open so my friend, The Breeze, could come in and chat. I ate ice cream and homemade chocolate chip cookies while sitting cross legged on the floor. I played music and danced around naked at 2 AM in the morning.
Then it all changed.
I decided, probably during a sugar high, that I wanted a dog. And not just any dog - a pug. Why did I want a pug? They seemed cute. Had I ever met a pug before? Nope. Did I know how to take care of a pug? Nope. Had I any clue in all frakkin' hell what I was getting myself into? Not a dang clue. But being the sometimes brainless gal that I am, I launched into my search for the perfect pug.
I found him.
Once his big buggy eyes stared at me in confusion, and he attempted to climb up my cleavage, I was gone. I spent the next hour drilling The Boyfriend's ear about how ah-I-can't-speak-because-I-just-wanna-scream cute The Pug's nose was - all 2 indented-into-his-skull millimeters of it.
Since then, I have been living in the Bowels of Hell. To those of you naughty enough to eventually drop by, let me tell you - the Bowels of Hell isn't all that bad. I can live with extremely lethal poo, a makeshift carpet of dead leaves and twigs, and dog toys placed in military strategic positions in order to render the most damage to the enemy (usually me, and sometime The Boyfriend). But I have been cursed. And this week I realized how controlled I have become by this DevilSpawn: I went to visit a breeder to buy myself another pug, so Babar could have a playmate.
