The Hazards of Being a Floor Cleaning System

I spend a fair amount of time in the kitchen. And when I do, I have a little dog constantly underfoot. It's not just because she always has to be within three feet of me (because she does) and gets pouty when I won't let her in the bathroom with me. She's there because I drop a lot of stuff, which means she gets to eat whatever hits the floor. Ham pieces. Bread crumbs. Cream. Shredded cheese. Usually, this works out pretty well for her. Sure, she might get stepped on periodically, but on the plus side, there's free food.

That brings us to last Sunday. I was schmearing chocolate frosting on a cake (because chocolate frosting on cake is awesome). For some reason, I could not keep my grip on the spatula. I dropped it on the floor three times. Since dogs should never have chocolate, I had to fight off my fluffy bundle of ravenousness in order to get the splatters cleaned up. She was getting a little frustrated with my breaking the Sacred Rule of Floor Food. So much so that she was practically sitting on my feet in an attempt to beat me to any drops.

I loaded up the spatula with a particularly large dollop of this delicious, gooey, dark chocolate frosting. Have I mentioned that my dog is pure white? Because that's pretty significant. You can probably see where this is going. Once again, my grip is faulty and the spatula falls.

But the frosting never touched the floor.

And of course, she didn't learn her lesson. Except that maybe she needs to get a longer tongue.

You Are My Obsession

So I finally got a dog. Hooray! *doing the happy dance*

And as much as I love this dog, I think she might just love me more. Maybe a little too much. Seriously.

While it's so very sweet that she is always within three feet of me, she's very little and quiet so she frequently gets stepped on. I'm not used to having a shadow! None of the kiddos ever followed me around like this (unless I was trying to use the bathroom by myself). This devoted behavior has taken some getting used to.

Also, I have my designated spot on the couch and have no qualms about asking people to move (think Sheldon on "Big Bang Theory"). Whenever I sit down, she's right there with me, trying to wiggle her way onto my lap before my computer makes it there first. And even then, she will rest her head on the touch pad until she's gotten enough scratches under her ears. She's content to press up against my leg and doze while I check Facebook conduct important online research. But when I get up, she is following, attempting to press her cold nose against any exposed skin as I walk. And she likes to lick my toes.

But lately, she's taken her obsession to a whole new level of crazy. Since she has to compete with the kids and the Man for my attention, she's decided that sitting next to me is no longer acceptable. Now, she insists on planting her fuzzy bum directly on my chest. I don't know about the majority of you, but I'd rather not smell like eau de canine buttikus. So I will gently scoot her tush to one side. Sometimes she's fine with that and will sit quietly, pressing as much of her belly against me as possible. Other times, like when there's a kid already sitting there, she scampers back on to my lap and seats herself on my bosoms. Not acceptable. Again, I will tenderly - but perhaps a little more firmly - adjust her position. And around and around we'll go until a) I stand up b) the offending child moves to another location or c) she gets all pouty.

Awww, poor baby. So pouty at the other end of the couch.

But seriously…no dog butts in my face, mmkay?

Wordless Wednesday: Separation Anxiety

When Saying Nothing Means "Yes"

Victory is mine. Mine! All MINE!

How, you ask?

Because of the newest member of our family.

This is Matilda. She was our rent-to-own dog. And now? She's mine.

I've had a dog for nearly my entire life, along with a hamster, an assortment of birds, and even a lizard. The Man has never had a pet of any kind. Not even a goldfish. So the thought of having a dog is not a pleasant one for him. But I wanted one. The kids wanted one. Then one of my friends had to find a new home for her dog and it seemed the perfect opportunity.

We'd keep the dog for two weeks, long enough for the novelty to wear off and the real responsibility to set in. The kids and I would share the task of taking her outside for walks (we don't have a fenced backyard) a few times a day, always cleaning up after her. Since she's an indoor dog, she'd need a bath once a week. Her food dish and water bowl would need to be filled daily. It was a lot of duties. There was also the condition that if the dog wasn't what we could handle,  she would be sent back, even we only had her a few days.

After the first week, when everything went well and the kids were completely enamored, I started pleading our case to the Man. Matilda is a mini Schnauzer and she doesn't shed. She's pretty good at letting us know if she needs to go outside. When we're not home, she stays in her kennel. At night, she goes to bed shortly after the kids and sleeps in the Boy's room (the Man rarely needs to interact with her). She doesn't chew on things. She doesn't drool or beg. All she asks is that we give her plenty of affection (and that whenever I sit down, she gets first dibs on my lap). Plus, all of her gear and supplies were free. She is a really good dog.

The Man said nothing. As Thanksgiving - and the end of the two weeks - approached, he started walking away whenever the topic of the dog came up. Since he wasn't saying no, I took that as a yes. Matilda now wears a new collar with a new tag, featuring my information as her owner. The kids are very good about taking care of her and she is constantly within a three-foot radius of me (except when the Man gets there first).

Sometimes, it's just better to ask forgiveness instead of permission.