Oh, Where... Oh, Where Can She Be?

I'm pleased to report that I'm not dead!

In fact, I'm quite the opposite. Fabulous things are happening in my wake!

Here are ten things that have happened since my last post:

- I have quit my job at the Home of the EngineerFriend
- I have begun new employment at the Outpost of the EngineerFriend (where the EngineerFriend is a minority, and is therefore easier to handle)
- I have booked a two week vacation for myself and Mister Amazingness, that the new job is willing to let me take
- I have booked an officiant, set a date and chosen (although not yet booked) a venue for the previously mentioned Formal Arrangements To Become Missus Amazingness
- I have spent two weeks with the Family of Amaziness, as they left only yesterday after their Forray to the Great North
- I have become a member of a local bellydance troupe
- I have bellydanced with that troupe in front of literally hundreds of people
- I have finished all my dance classes for the season, and am enjoying my first summer vacation since college
- I have undertaken a new adventure in dining to accommodate the changing health needs of Mister Amazingness and myself
- I have thought of literally dozens of blog posts, none of which have come to fruition because I've been doing all the things I just listed instead of writing.

And because you've been so patient, here's a little nugget of sunshine for me to share today:

The Young Master and I are home alone today, as Mister Amazingness has ventured forth in the name of gainful employment. He will return this evening, but until that time we're fending for ourselves.

This morning I was graciously allowed to sleep in until 7 before the desperate pleas for a potty run dragged  me from my slumber. We have now - an hour later - done everything that a dog needs to do outside... drank coffee on the deck... played tug-of-war until the tug toy got too soggy to proceed**1... and now are lounging around the living room. But it's been *just* long enough since we've had any activity together that someone is getting antsy.

As I was writing out my ten-things-I've-done list for you, I noticed that the Young Master had invited himself to a party for one in our guest bathroom. This, I'm afraid, is not uncommon.

Whilst attending his party, I heard a telltale thump-thump-thump. This, also, is not uncommon. The Young Master enjoys jumping into the bathtub and chewing upon the faucet**2, and it makes an unmistakable sound.

Except that this was not the unmistakable thump-thump-thump of a dog tongue on a bathtub faucet. This was different.

Because I am not an idiot, I immediately went to investigate.

What I found was a dog who was staring pointedly at the toilet.

Now... toilet lids in our home are left in the down-and-very-down position always (unless there is a posterior involved). It helps keep dog tongues and items from the back of the toilet from swimming in the bowl. And until this very morning, the Young Master had accepted that situation.

But today, he decided that toilets warranted further investigation.

Figuring that there could be no harm in opening the lid to allow him a peek, I did just that.

He tried to lean over the front to get to the water.

He's too short.

He thought for a moment, and then proceeded to the side of the bowl.

He is still too short.

Having been denied access to the Magical Water In The Bowl twice, he proceeded as only the most intelligent dog would:

He looked at me, laid down like a perfect gentle-dog, and then pointed delicately to the toilet bowl to request that I deliver the water to him.

Shortly thereafter he abandoned the toilet in favor of the bathtub again, and I proceeded immediately to share this story with you.

Have a sunshiney day, ReaderFriend!

I've missed you.

**1 - Have you seen these? Felted Dog Toys! (Admittedly, I bought mine from a big box store. But I MUCH prefer to give my money to individuals... so this link is to an Etsy site where you can get a better quality item than I did.) I love them. Although they soak up slobber like nobody's business... and if the Young Master were more about eating the things that he destroyed, it would bind him up quicker than the time he ate a young pine tree... they're SO durable. And if the one I bought were actually knit instead of just felted, it would be nigh indestructable. I'm thinking I might even be able to convince myself to make some for him for his birthday... Columbus Day is far enough away that I could pull off a craft project... right? Right?? 

**2 Lest you go around thinking that I'm denying the Young Master access to fresh water... he has two water bowls. Legitimate water bowls that are always full for his partaking. He just prefers to jump into the bathtub because it's an exciting adventure. And sometimes there are bugs that crawl out of the drain**3, which are delicious.

**3 Ew.

Winter Walks, Part 1

Springtime is my very favorite time of year.

The winter goes away...

The sunshine comes out to play...

The snow melts...

The leaves peek out, unfurl and greet the world...

All sorts of poeticalness happens in the springtime.

It's beautiful, and I love it.

Here in the frozen wastelands of New England, winter has been pretty brutal this year. His grip has been relentless - day after day of sub-zero temperatures and driving snow and general frosty mayhem.

I don't like it.

Neither, I've found, does the Young Master.

See, wintertime is a time of cooped-uppedness.

He doesn't get to go outside and play as often, because the ground is frozen and his toes are tender. He starts limping almost immediately with the cold on his feet. And if there's salt or sand... forget it. I might as well carry him through the yard.


I would look like this, only less photogenic.

Photo Credit:
http://dsmpower.tv/wp-content/uploads/2012/06/oneman.jpg

 So when we had a tropical heat wave the other day and the temperature soared up into the thirties, I knew it was my lucky break.

Two out of the past four work days have been kind to me. I've gotten out of the office early enough that I can make it through my commute home and get there before the sun has completely set. This is due (in no small part) to the sun deciding to stick around longer because it knows springtime is coming. It's also because I found a new way to drive home from work that avoids the string of red lights that hates me through three of my four commute-through towns.

So, on Monday, I got out of work at 2. I went to the eye doctor for my bi-annual** adventures with glaucoma drops and those charts with the little numbers. And then I drove home. The glaucoma drops had given me a bit of a headache, so I took it easy on the commute... but I still arrived home by 4:45. Sweet! I thought. Evening walky time!

Walks with the Young Master can go a couple different ways, depending on the time of day. I'll do a visual breakdown when I figure out exactly how to portray it. But I can sum up here:

• He has the focus to see the walk through with practically show-dog-worthy attention. This is mostly because of his Walking Stick.
• On occasion, he will walk politely until we are fifty yards from the house, and then begin to lolligag because the walk is coming to an end. This is mostly in the morning.
• He does not have the focus to see the walk through with the patience God gave a guppy. This is mostly because:
• Something smells good
• Something that smelled good tastes good
• He has dropped his walking stick and is waiting for me to pick it
• There is something - anything - that has a heartbeat or once had a heartbeat or might have a heartbeat if he stares at it longingly enough

The latter almost always wins out over the former.

It's easier in the wintertime to schedule in morning walks. We leave the house right after the school bus has gone by, and we're back so I can get on the road and into the office before my coffee is cold.

But it's more fun to take evening walks. I imagine, in his mind, it goes something like this:

Hmm... another leaf just blew by the window. I don't think I'll bark at this one. No one's home to see me. But... hark! What noise at yonder portal makes?

Could it be?

Dare I hope?

I must adjourn to the window and smush my nose upon it.

Is it?

Is it?

Is it?

IT IS!

MOMMA'S HOOOOME!

Momma! I missed you! I missed you! I missed you SO MUCH! I don't think you understand. Let me lick your tongue to tell you how much I missed you! Momma! I missed you! I missed you!

Wait.

Why are you standing up?

MOMMA. I missed you. Come back and kneel with me, so I may properly shower you with my pent up adoration.

Momma.

Momma.

Mo....

Sit? Okay... I can sit.

OH. MY. GOD.

We're going for a walk.

WAAAAAAAAALKIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIES!!!!

Yeah... that's pretty much how it plays out, but picture it with fifty pounds of exhilarated adorable-ocity and a long, lolling tongue.

Tomorrow, I tell you just what happened on this Monday evening walk.

And let me tell you, ReaderFriend... it'll be worth the wait.

**1 I always have trouble with this. Does bi-annual mean "every other year?" Or does it mean "twice a year?" Semi-annual means twice a year, no matter what. Bi-annual needs to make up its mind.

Tennis Ball

Walking Stick

The typical order of operations in our humble home happen something like this:

5:30 - Alarm clock rings

5:31 - I grumble and roll back over for twenty more minutes' rest

5:50 - Boyfriend of Amazingness insists that it is time to get up, and I can't call out unconscious

5:52 - Shower Time

5:53 - Young Master sticks his head in the shower to find out what all the excitement is about

5:53.5 - Young Master complains of a dampened head

5:57 - Boyfriend of Amazingness finishes his shower, goes to dress

6:05 - Boyfriend of Amazingness is dressed and takes the Young Master downstairs to start the coffee

6:10 - I finally convince myself that there's life outside of my shower and that perhaps I should get on with it

6:11 - Boyfriend of Amazingess takes the Young Master out for his morning constitutional

6:20 - I finally decide upon an outfit and make it downstairs to greet Boyfriend of Amazingness and the Young Master as they return from their constitutional and settle in for breakfast

6:30 - Boyfriend of Amazingness leaves for work; Young Master's world comes to a screeching halt

6:35 - After five minutes of prompting and persuading, Young Master remembers that there's another human in the household with whom he might engage

6:37 - Young Master and I set out for a morning walk

6:38 - Young Master insists that we must turn back, for he has forgotten his walking Stick

It's the same every morning. We walk out the door, and make it almost to the end of the driveway before he remembers that something is missing, and we cannot continue forward until it is found.

His walking Stick is the length and bredth of my forearm - exactly the same circumference and only gnawed ever-so-slightly about the ends.**1 It is, by all accounts, the only Stick worth having.

It is the Stick with the capital S.

Sure, other sticks might fill the void for a short time. They might help distract him from his missing companion.

But no stick could e'er replace his Stick.

For instance, one afternoon my fabulous sister puppy-sat for us, on a morning wherein the Young Master would not constitute during his constitutional. For fear of regression of our house-trained pup, I called upon my sister for a lunchtime potty run. She obliged most graciously, but somewhere upon the route of the walk his Stick became lost.

Now, "lost" is a strong term. What happened in my sister's words is that Stick was momentarily set aside in favor of a delectable to-go container that had been cast aside by the road. After he "Dropped It," they were both flushed with success and forgot to retrieve Stick before moving on.

This meant that Stick was lost, as was all hope for future happiness.

The situation was easily resolved when I called Sister and asked if she knew where Stick might be. She directed us, we retrieved Stick and the world was right again. But for those short hours, life was the absolute worst it had ever been.**2

And so, my morning routine is set. I rise, I shine, I walk with Stick.

And it is good.

**1 Of note because the Young Master is a "power chewer." Thank goodness for Kong, whose resistance to puppy teeth resets my hope for the future of nice things in my home.

**2 Ironic for a pup whose baby-making paraphernalia has only been missing for a month. To me, that would be a greater catastrophe... but perhaps his incessant licking of his nethers has reassured him that he's as whole as he needs to be.

I Never Thought...

I don't remember where I saw the book that noted "Things I Never Thought I'd Say Until I Was a Parent."

But it was exactly what it sounds like, and it was comedy gold.

Within its pages, parents had noted utterances they never expected to pass their lips until they had offspring who started pushing boundaries and learning about the world around them.

Or maybe it never really existed at all... maybe it's only in my mind. A hodge-podge of different executions of the same concept. Like the web page created by a fellow Educator of Organized Religion, where we noted phrases we never thought would come up in a Sunday morning class. Things like "Yes, sweetheart, that's a very fine sword. But it doesn't belong in his tofu box." (Mentioned during a Halloween party, wherein a ninja was terrifying a large box of tofu. Yeah... the context doesn't make it sound any less crazy. But we had fun!)

Anyway.

Having thus far remained childless, I hadn't the need to deploy any oddly-phrased requests in my day-to-day life. I mean, sure... sometimes I have to say some awkward stuff to my EngineerFriends to keep them in line. But nothing really, truly out of the ordinary**1, and nothing in my own home.

That is... until the Young Master joined our ranks.

He's been with us for just a few days more than a full month. And every single day has been full of "Honey, look what he's doing now!" and "Aww, aren't you just the cutest when you [snuggle in daddy's armpit] [have peanut butter all over your face] [insert typical puppy activity here]..." and "No. NoNoNoNoNo. That is not how we treat [the coffee table] [new insect friend] [mama's arm]."

But on occasion, a form-letter response isn't what the situation calls for.

On occasion, I say Something I Never Thought I'd Say, Until I Was a Parent.

   10.     Oh, oh dear. No, honey, I'm sorry... You killed the bug. You can't play with bugs after they die.

    9a.    Sweetheart, don't lick Daddy when he's in the shower.

    9b.    Okay... hold still, please. Lets get those icky bubbles off of your tongue.

    8.      Oh, honey! Did your fart scare you?

    7.      I don't know what you just fished out of the couch, but spit it out. We don't eat couch treasures.

    6.     Could you not with the teeth, please?
    5.     Honey, if you don't belong in the refrigerator, then your tennis ball doesn't either.

    4.    No, no, no... it's okay, sweetheart. Look! There's no other doggy in the oven. See? Just you!

    3.    Seriously?! We're in the car! What did you find that crunches?! Stop crunching!

    2.    There's room for exactly one tongue in my mouth, and yours isn't it.

    1.     I'm going to die in this burrito of hell**2, smothered by body heat and dog kisses. But at least I'll die happy and loved.

**1 At least, not since the licking incident.

**2 A phrase I coined whence my two male counterparts undertook sleeping upon either side of me on top of the comforter, while I was underneath trapped by their body weight on the blankets and the overwhelming body heat emanating from each party.

Graduation

My high school graduation song was called “Graduation,” by an artist known as Vitamin C.

I know... it's so original.

I have to admit that I groaned when it was announced that my graduating class**1 had chosen it by "popular vote" (wherein the popular kids voted and the rest of us let them). The song was cliché, it was preppy and it was a montage of stereotypical high school moments that stereotypical high school types could relate to. Although it set my eyes to rolling about my brainpan, it was an understandable choice for my classmates to sing as they vied for attention on what would probably be the only day of scholastic achievement in their Podunk lives.**2

And so, realizing that this would not be my only day of scholastic achievement, I set my distate aside and learned the damn song.

On graduation day, I stood up and sang:

“And so we talked all night about the rest of our lives:
Where we’re gonna be when we turn twenty-five
I keep thinking times will never change
I keep on thinking things will always be the same.”

I got the experience over with, and I scampered out those swinging double doors. I left my Alma Mater behind me and didn't stop for even a moment. In fact, I didn't even bother to remember Graduation Day as my fifth high school reunion tootled past.**3

I graduated high school in 2005. That was eight years ago this past June. And I haven't wasted time reflecting on it since that day.

But the start of the school year echoed with unsettled resonation in my belly this year.

This is my second autumn during which I haven’t headed back to school. It’s noteable to me now because my most recent alma mater stands between my new home and my workplace: I drive right by it twice a day now, so the increased student activity this week caught my eye (and threw off my commuting schedule).

Last year, it knocked my socks off simply to be part of the world of graduates - I reveled in the new-to-me world of working full weeks (and even time-and-a-half overtime, instead of just extra straight time when I should have been studying) during what had been scholastic semesters. I could keep reading for fun well into the autumn when the weather got cooler and I wanted to stay inside with fresh applesauce and a fun chick lit. I didn't have to abandon my sitcoms in favor of an evening session with Developmental Psychology or Algebra for Almost-Idiots.

This year, it took a sturdier revelation than The Beginning of The School Year to rattle my hosiery. Sure, the fall semester was the catalyst... but that only set in motion the real focus of my unease.

This year, I am 25 years old.

I have survived for one quarter of a century.

I have met all of the biological markers (16 = car; 18 = graduation; 21 = drinking; etc) that society imposed.

I have a beautiful home, a wonderful man to share it with, gainful employment and reasonable health.

I'm officially on my life's path.

No more "I'll get there..."

No more "Next Steps..."

I'm there.

This year, I am the personification of That Future Self that we sang about on Graduation Day.

I mean, of course I've done oodles. But What I Expected and What Came to Pass are two different pictures entirely.

Did I know then that - just weeks before my freshman semester began - I would abandon the college into which I had been accepted in favor of living at home and commuting to the local Technical Institute instead?

No.

Did I know then that I would decide that my first degree wasn't what I wanted to practice for the rest of my life, smack dab in the middle of my final course for that very degree?

No.

Did I know then that the boyfriend I had only just met would propose?

Well... I hoped. Every girl hopes that her high school boyfriend will propose. But I didn't know.

And I certainly didn't know that I would choose to finally leave him less than two years after that proposal and accept that Mister Available - especially Mister Available-In-High-School - is almost never Mister Right.

Nor did I know that Mister Right would mosey into my world just a few months later, right when I had decided that hope didn't have a place in my world anymore.

(Mister Right tried to hide his Right-ness behind exhaustion and Pennsic grime. It didn't work. I found him anyway.)

So it seems the song was right to ask those seemingly pointless questions.

If High School Me had seen a snapshot of me today and had to guess what was behind my future smile, would she have known my story?

Not even a little.

High School Me thought she was destined for an easy, artsy path.

I expected I would become the next interior decorator on Trading Spaces.

I would make oodles of money and my high-school boyfriend would jump at the opportunity to marry me.

I would start producing babies with rapidfire speed, and would seamlessly transform to a successful stay-at-home Mom who kept a fabulously tidy house, fabuolusly tidy children and a fabulously tidy relationship with their father - all while writing childrens' books and poetry out of our guest bedroom/office and making more than I had earned working full time(plus) in the "working world."

High School Me wouldn't have anticipated that I would be hired on in small business eighteen months after high school graduation, that I would sit idly by as the company sold out to a faceless corporation, or that I would continue my toils therein as I approached my seventh anniversary of employment despite my languishing creativity.

High School Me would have been heartbroken to know that my father would never see me march to Pomp and Circumstance again, although he would hug me tight on the day that I finished my Associate's coursework just three short months before he passed away.

High School Me's eyes would have widened questioningly to find my name to be on the paperwork for my first home alongside Mister Amazingness's, and that my signature reflected my birth name instead of a married name. And she would have been confused to find that the third resident was a quadruped instead of a toddler.

But most of all...

High School Me would have passed out cold at the idea that my journals and notepads spent years boxed up and collecting dust. She would have cuffed me to find how poorly I had treated my artistic potential. And she would have walked out of the room when she realized that I allowed writing to fall not just from my list of priorities, but out of my life completely.

Maybe it was the English papers that made me feel so literate in High School. The final years of schooling offer options for Creative Writing instead of just book reports, so no doubt the newfound freedom of my pen felt like fresh air beneath my atrophied wings.

But after high school, writing fell out of my favor.

College got in the way.

Work got in the way.

Life got in the way.

And you know what?

I just sat there and let them.

I knew it wasn't right - I had a couple of journals I would dive half-heartedly into on occasion, typically when things seemed darkest. I would have literary diarrhea, purging whatever was bothering me, and then turning back to "real life" and letting the negativity (and, admittedly, the positivity too - writing isn't only for the brokenhearted...) fester until I popped again.

I knew it wasn't right, but I didn't have time, energy or inclination to make it better.

It was on May 23 in the eleventh iteration of two-thousand that I published my first blog post. I had been free of my broken engagement for almost a full year, and had just completed my second (and final of the immediately-planned) college degree. I was looking for a new creative endeavor, and my neverending tirade against my co-workers and celebrations of my new relationship on my favorite social media site prompted me to start something more organized. The blog just seemed right.

I wrote in that first post that "I never intended for [my corporate position] to be a long-term employment situation. I finished one college career and began another, and still found myself toiling diligently behind the same desk and within the same maze of cubicles as months drifted by in a haze. A few years, experiences, and misunderstandings later, I have changed positions within the company, and the company has changed beneath me. I have grown and changed myself, becoming a very different person from the girl who began with this company so long ago."

I was quite serious.

Corporate shackles weren't how High School Me envisioned my future self, especially at the relatively young age of 25.

In recent years I've come to see them more as golden handcuffs; my distaste with corporate employment overshadowed by my fondness for reliably paying my bills and having a little money left over to live comfortably with Boyfriend of Amazingness, enjoy our hobbies and support my family.

My scholastic revelation this year has led to a serious consideration, though.

What's stopping me from pursuing a career in writing, as I so desperately wish to do?

Of course, the immediate answer is money. Writing doesn't pay. Published works are what pay. And significant time must be spent writing before publicity is gained, and even then publicity does not immediately equate with wealth and riches... which makes tossing aside the handcuffs in favor of my laptop and a lawnchair an irresponsible option.

Irresponsibility just isn't my bag.

Recently, with the purchase of our new home and the introduction of our new four-legged youngun, Boyfriend of Amazingness and I have settled into a wonderful routine of domesticity. Which makes it all the more important for me to get up in the morning and go to work, so that this lifestyle that I so enjoy may continue well into our future together.

But it also makes it all the more difficult.

With a beautiful home, a snuggly Young Master and a loving Boyfriend of Amazingness inside, dragging myself out the door just to pay the bills each day breaks my heart just a little more deeply.

"I could be writing," I think to myself as I drive in to work.

"I could be brainstorming," I consider as I stare blankly at my computer.

"I could be plotting," I sigh as I reach for the ringing phone.

But Could Be didn't get me to my two-hundredth blog post, did it?

Could Be whispered gently that perhaps it was time to put aside the status-quo and reach for something better.

Could Be persuaded me that there were more fitting options.

It worked when I graduated high school and made my way into college.

It worked when I started my blog and finally embraced my creativity.

It worked when we moved out of our apartment and into our beautiful home, committing to one another with our signatures and a dance in our not-yet-moved-into kitchen.

In time, I'm hoping it will work for me again.

Two-double-zero blog posts, my ReaderFriends. Thank you for indulging my whims, catching my tears and sharing my sparkles.

It is my fondest hope that we can forge onward into two hundred more, that the sunshine will far outweigh the grey and that there will always be something shiny to share.

**Sunny Smiles**

**1 Note: Not MY class – just the class I graduated with. My class didn’t graduate until a year later.

**2 I’m not being snippy. I grew up in a Podunk town and went to a Podunk school where there was legitimate concern every year whether all of the seniors would march on graduation day. Moving on to college wasn’t often an option that was taken. Graduating from college was even less likely. There’s a reason I fought tooth and nail to get out early.

**3 Another side-effect of not being "part" of your graduating class, and instead graduating with a group of students a year your senior: They don't think about inviting you to the reunions. And your own class doesn't invite you, because you didn't graduate with them. I suppose it's probably fortunate that I didn't leave any lingering marks upon my high school - Otherwise I'd have to go to homecoming or something.

Distractions

"Whyyyy?!"

That's what I'm hearing today.

I'm hearing your cries, ReaderFriends:

"Why, Sunny? Why don't you have words for us today?"

Well, it's quite simple.
I'm really having a horrendous day. So while I started this cute little story, about how my pup got stuck under the dishwasher chasing a rogue tennis ball**1, I kept allowing myself to get distracted by funny YouTube clips that I thought might pep me up.

The first was this one:

And from there, I got caught up in this:

And then, we just descended into madness.


So I never did get around to finishing my story. But I feel better, so I guess that's what matters.
**1 Before you report me to the ASPCA,**2 let me 'splain.

A tennis ball went rogue this morning during his shenanigans (of which I'll simply have to post a video some time, because it's the most adorable thing ever**3...) and rolled under the old dishwasher that's sitting in the middle of our kitchen floor.

(We replaced our dishwasher. The new one is installed and works. The old, not-working one hasn't yet made it out to the garage. Don't judge.)

At first, the Young Master just pawed at it.

Then he barked.

(Now, as I tell you the last part of this story, please remember that I was in the immediate vicinity and was assuring that at no time was my dog in any danger. I'm a responsible pet owner, despite how these stories sound.)

Upon realizing that the tennis ball responded to his call just as readily as he responds to mine, the Young Master took it upon himself to dive head-and-shoulders under the dishwasher to retrieve the ball.

The dishwasher started rocking.

The dog started wiggling.

The tennis ball remained nonplussed.

Realizing that he would not prevail, the Young Master decided to abandon his quest.

However...

He forgot how to remove himself from beneath the dishwasher.

He barked again, and wiggled more.

The dishwasher continued to rock.

Realizing myself that this situation would not draw itself to a close, I approached the scene and placed one quiet hand upon the washer, and one gently upon the dog's neck.

He ceased movement.

Miraculously, so did the dishwasher.

With a gentle push in opposite directions, I encouraged the two to separate.

It was at this moment that the dog realized his transmission does include Reverse, and he beep-beeped himself right out.

Then he found that there had been an alternate tennis ball immediately behind him during the entire shenanigan, and pounced upon it without further delay.

I was left to retrieve the rogue ball and inconspicuously hide it in a new spot - after all, what's life without excitement?**4

**2 Which, by the way, is my number one resource for pesky pet problems. I blame every ounce of positive return we've gotten out of training the Young Master on them and their humane, responsible and easy-to-implement training suggestions.

**3 I realize that I sound like every other pet parent out there. But seriously. Cutest. Thing. Ever.

**4 Well, look at that. I guess I did tell my story after all.

New and Exciting

Indeed, that is the name of the game today: "New and Exciting."

Because Boyfriend of Amazingness and I have embarked upon a New and Exciting Journey, wherein we welcomed a New and Exciting Houseguest to join our family.

No, we are not procreating...

No, we've not randomly welcomed a vagabond into our home and decided to keep him as a permanent fixture, between the lamp and the bookcase in the library...

No. Instead, we've welcomed a four-legged youngster to our home, and he's decided that it might be okay to stay.

After a whirlwind adoption process,**1 Friday marked the day that 44 pounds of fur, drool and snuggles took up residence on our living room couch.

And on the kitchen floor.

And on the bed.

And just about everywhere else in the house. (Well... everywhere except the craft room. Craft rooms are full of things that Young Masters would find shiny and delicious, and there's no need for yakked-up piles of crayon to become my new decorating scheme.)

So, over the past few days, everything has been an adventure.

No, seriously...

Everything.

You're going to go pee? Let me come watch. I'll rest my head on your leg, and make sure you're okay in this weird little room on your weird little throne.

You're going to pour yourself a glass of lemonade? Let me stick my head in the refrigerator and make sure there's nothing out-of-the-ordinary. For good measure, I'll lick the bottle. Yeah... I think you'll be okay if you drink this.

You're going to sit on the couch? Why, I think that sounds fabulous. Let me just... oops, that was your face I just hit with my tail, and your squishy middle bit feels funny under my feet. So sorry, just trying to get to the optimized seating area between you and The Important One.**2 Won't take me but a moment more... here's a kiss for your troubles.

What will tomorrow bring?

Only he knows.

**1 When I say whirlwind, I mean that this makes Dorothy's tornado seem tame. We sent in an application and a lighthearted request for additional information on Tuesday, thinking that (at best) we might be able to schedule a short meet-and-greet over the weekend, if he hadn't alreay gone to a Forever Home. By noon Wednesday, the shelter called to inform us that we were approved and they wanted to know when we'd be retrieving the young master to bring him home. After a short session of flailing our arms and saying "But we haven't even met him yet!", we decided that Boyfriend of Amazingness would check out the situation on Friday morning, at his earliest convenience, and see if it might work out. By the time I arrived home from work on Friday afternoon, we were Proud Puppy Parents. Now that, my ReaderFriends, is a whirlwind.

**2 How I imagine the Young Master refers to Boyfriend of Amazingness. I am The Tolerable One. He is The Important One. It's a Man-And-Beast bonding thing. My lack of dangling bits in the middle means that I simply wouldn't understand.