Let's play pretend

This weekend brought us Arthur, whom I prefer to call Russel.

Russel is an English Setter, 6ish years old, and our charge for the weekend while friends ventured down to D.C.

Now, I should preface this by saying that I was *this* close to securing future puppydom with R. I've been making hang-dates with friends who have puppies, sending cute finds direct to R via e-mail and even starting a (ah-hem) puppy wall. best. thing. ever.

Since Russel is well into his middle age I figured this would sinch the 'Let's get a pup' campaign. Sure, he was recovering from a recent brush with death, death in the form of a small branch that he sucked right up his nose. It was an $800 accident for the puppy parents and a fact that I generally smooth over whenever it is brought up by R (but OUR dog won't inhale small trees). It was working for a while.

We were to stay at their place, which gave us further opportunity to try out home ownership. And if the dog and the home didn't work out, it was like a mini break away from our apartment. A free bed and breakfast. delight.

Friday, evening. I'm still at work until six and R is attempting to write his thesis. After carefully reading the Arthur the dog memo I realized that Russel needs be walked by 530. The vote goes out and I opt to skiddadle out of the office, back to our apt to pick up the key and then over to our pied-a-terre.

The blatter-filled pup was jonesing for a walk so we took a brisk one around the block. This kid has really got an eye twigs of all sizes. He chews, eats, knaws, claws and, yes, snorts them all in and around his snout. Dear God it was the shortest walk to an anxiety attack I've ever had.

With R still back at school Russel and I got down to the business of hanging. Only Russel isn't so big on hanging, or cuddling, or spreading any sort of nuzzle love. What he IS into is starring.

No, it's more than a stare. It's like a window into the darkest part of my soul that obviously ate his parents.

This face, and this doesn't even capture it, is clearly plotting my early, slow and torturous death.


Luckily I distracted him with treats (like a lot), long walks along the sun drenched sidewalks and maybe even a few (small) twigs.

He even made a (twin) friend.




Honestly, all was going well. R was into it, we ordered in, watched some cable. Delight.

Then Sunday morning rolled around and R and I were trying to sleep through the parade of babies pounding across the floor above us. The Arthur the dog memo said that Russel can sleep in until 9 on weekends (woo hoo!) and that if he had to go out he would whine loud and clear. End of story: it was 10, there was no whine, but there was two poops and a splatter of pee.

Unfortunately, R saw it first.

"Is this was dogs do?" he asked.

Does, not OUR dog work for that?

"It's only 10," he continued, "what, we can't sleep in with the dog? He can't wait?!"

Yeah, well there's only so much soothing our imaginary dog can do.

Russel went for his official morning walk while i cleaned up the little mess and we said good bye to our mini break pied and the hope of getting a pup any time soon.

{sign}

And thus began the 'Let's get a puppy campaign TWO.'

xoxoL