>Let’s talk about my dear dog Walter.

>He and I met one year ago this month.

Husby and I had just moved into the before mentioned splendid apartment number 5 and I was spending the day with my sister-in-law Misty. She and I had just finished off a fabulous lunch at my favorite sushi place, and being the animal lovers that we are, decided to go and visit all the puppies and kittens at the local animal shelter.

We made our way to the closest one and cooed over all the bundles of fluff before us. After we visited each and every animal there the two of us realized how much fun we were having and headed over to the next shelter.

It was there that I met him.

He was alone, in the last cage on the left and sitting on a cold wet cement floor. Our eyes connected, his head tilted, and I instantly knew. He was mine.

I had absolutely no intention of bringing home a puppy that day. I really didn’t.

Since I try to actually be a half way decent wife, I grabbed my cell phone and made a call to my Husby. Needless to say he wasn’t exactly thrilled with the idea of my bringing home a random dog. However, I was most positively sure that he was already my boy and was determined to make Husby agree. No matter what the cost.

Thankfully all it took was a picture of Misty holding my boy.

What can I say? I’m stubborn like that. Plus I’ve got my Mamah’s scheming genetics going for me.

Now let’s talk about yesterday.

Walter The Spaz does not understand the fact that he is a dog. On the contrary, if you told him that, he would accuse you of blasphemy and whole heartedly explain to you that he is unquestionably a baby. My baby.

And seeing how babies need comfort and nurturing, they must do everything in their power to not only be next to you, but to lie on the top of your face and smother you with their stinky furry butts.

Since the battle of just who actually owns my face reigns on, (who knew a 15 pound chihuahua could be so strong-minded?), I now bathe him with a delicious organic raspberry shampoo and conditioner. Quite frequently.

Persnickety has got to be able to breathe.

Sigh. I’ll never win.


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