Can buy me love
I am sitting here in my bathrobe on a Sunday morning hoping that this blog will calm me down because right now, I'm a mess.
I can't focus. I can't eat. I can't even drink another PepsiOne.
I can't think about anything else except getting this puppy.
Yes, a puppy.
See, I've never been a big pet person. I haven't found a lot of success and joy when it came to pets. When I was little, I apparently had a dog named "Herman". I don't remember Herman, except from pictures I saw of him licking the PB&J off my face as a one-year old. My dad used to talk about Herman as being the "best damn tennis ball dog ever" - this meant that he could leap high in the air and get a tennis ball in his mouth (the dog, not my dad). My mother, however, hated Herman and that fact that he would lick her clean baby (me) on the face.
One day, Herman allegedly ran away. My dad, now 25+ years divorced from my mother, is still convinced to this day that my mom had some nefarious dealings which contributed to the demise of Herman. I wouldn't be surprised. It's not hard to picture my mother driving deep into the hills of Marin County with Herman, stopping the car, opening the door and tossing a tennis ball into the trees and yelling, "Go, Herman, Go!" and then her racing off. No dog licks her baby and gets away with it.
After Herman, I had a black cat named "Pumpkin". I don't remember this cat very well, except that right before my parents divorced and my mom and I moved way up north, we got another cat "Peaches". In a supposed fit of jealousy, Pumpkin ran away. Pumpkin returned 3 months and 40 miles north later only to show up at our new house, pee on the curtains, and leave. (I have some exbf's I'd like to do this to, but frankly it's too much work to drive over there, break into their house, and urinate on their belongings. If it were easier, maybe.)
My next memory is of Peaches being pregnant and giving birth to kittens in a closet. As an excited 7-year old, I remember going to check on Peaches and the new kittens. I quickly realized that that one kitten was missing, and another kitten was without a head. I remember thinking how brave my mom was for picking up the now stiff and headless kitten and throwing it away in the trash. In explaining this tragedy, my mom told me that Peaches had eaten those hapless kittens because they must have been sick. So in an act of kindness and survival, Peaches ate them to protect the other kittens. Um, yeah. Soon Peaches, the cannibal cat, disappeared. I don't know where she went, but hopefully it was protective custody.
Traumatized by kitten-eating cats, I got obsessed with the idea of a baby chicken. At 8-years old, I took a brown egg (I thought brown = real chicken inside), and wanting to see the egg hatch, I placed it under my pillow between a hot water bottle and my waterbed (it was the 70's, come on). After several disappointing weeks of waiting for this baby chicken to appear from my bed, I think my mom took pity on me, and bought me a real live baby chicken which I named "Woodstock". (I was a big Snoopy fan) Owning a real live chicken wouldn't seem so weird if we lived on a farm, but see, we lived in a townhouse in Santa Rosa, California. We had no backyard, no chicken coop, and certainly no training on how one would raise a chicken. To both of our surprise, this baby chicken grew up quite fast. No longer a cute yellow bundle of joy, it quickly became a full-size chicken, which got its daily exercise running around in the only tiled area of our home: The kitchen.
Upon returning home from school one day, Woodstock was gone. My mom sat me down and told me that Woodstock had gone to a farm. (No really, he did. I even went to visit him). I am pretty sure at some point we ate him for dinner, but to this day my mom won't admit it (though I almost got her to break on what *really* happened to Herman).
After that disappointing and surreal experience, I wouldn't get another pet until I was 16 years old. It was the early 1980's and I had spiked multi-colored hair, Goth makeup and black clothing. I acquired a pet rat to complete The Look. I can't recall the rat's name, but I remember the great affection I had for this rat. Then, after about 3 months of successful pet ownership, the rat died. I buried him a shoebox in our backyard and pledged never to own another pet. Pets were trouble. They meant pain and sadness. And somehow my mother always got rid of them.
Then about a year ago, my feelings towards pets changed: I met GerRee's dog Charlie. At first, I didn't really like Charlie. He jumped on me, ignoring my loud protests of "Down! No! Asshole!", and got white hair all over my (still) black clothing. He got saliva on me, including my face, even though it was devoid of PB&J. He was demanding of attention, and I was not the person to give it to him.
Then something weird started happening. I started to feel affection for Charlie. I started to look forward to seeing him (almost as much as GerRee), and I started not to care if he got hair all over my clothing (this change in attitude was helped in part by wearing washable black clothing, but still). I didn't mind him sitting on my lap and drooling all over me. I even liked to embrace him and say in a goofy voice, "I wuv my wittle Charlie warlie!"
I knew my fate was sealed for future pet ownership when Charlie and I got to spend the entire day together. It was an overcast day, gray and cloudy with scattered showers, and one of the best days of the year. Upon my arrival at GerRee's house, Charlie was so happy to see me. He gladly hopped into my car's passenger seat, and relished hanging his head out the window. As we ran errands and I would go inside the store, I would come back to the car to see him sitting in the driver's seat as if to say, "Get in. I'll drive." Later, we went for a long walk in the park that surpassed any walk I had ever taken with a significant other. Charlie listened to me talk about myself for hours on end, except when he was sniffing some interesting object like an old pop can or dead rotting bird. Later, back at my house, I even let him sit on my Crate and Barrel couch, knowing, but suddenly not caring, that his white fur would be a bitch to get off that furniture.
I had been turned and now I wanted my own dog.
But what dog would I own? Lord knows there was not another Charlie, and I couldn't seem to convince GerRee and Lee to give him up to me. Trying another angle, I suggested that GerRee pick out my dog and raise it for me for a few months and then hand it over. Surely her dog-rearing skills would result in another Charlie-like animal. Alas, they wanted to keep Charlie all to themselves and didn't want to raise a dog on my behalf.
Undeterred by GerRee and Lee's selfishness, I made a mental list of the things I wanted in a dog:
1. Cute
2. Incredibly cute
3. Able to fit in a stylish handbag
4. Low-maintenance
Given this criteria, I briefly dabbled with the idea of getting a long-haired Chihuahua, Toy Poodle, or Bichon Frise, but those dogs simply didn't appeal to me. Finally realizing that there is no such thing as #4, I had somewhat decided on getting a West Highland Terrier, knowing it would have to buy a fairly large handbag, but confident Louis Vuitton made something that would work. I liked the Terrier personality and the white fur (I know, shallow, but what can I say?). Having made this decision, I sat down last night to find a local breeder online. Then by some sort of serendipity, I found the dog of my dreams: A Biewer
What the hell is a Biewer you might ask? Good question. I spent about 3 hours online last night researching this German-bred dog, and while I won't go into great details here, the dog fits all the criteria listed above, except of course #4. Basically it's this itty-bitty dog that became its own breed in 1984 in Germany, and is close to being a Yorkshire terrier. Basically, it's the kind of dog my father, and any other red-blooded male, would hate. It's small, cute, and incredibly gay - basically the things I look for in a man, but without the fur.
Here are some links:
Biewer breeder in Ottawa (in case you forgot, that's Canada)http://www.biewers.com/index.htm
Cutest picture in the entire world:
http://www.gotpetsonline.com/pictures/gallery/dogs/alphabetically/biewers/biewer-0016/
Handbag I would want for my dog:
http://www.glamourdog.com/hobokittybag.html
(I'm so lame, I know)
I could post about 20 other links which I now have saved in My Favorites, but I won't make you suffer through my Biewer obsession.
I emailed the Canadian breeder last night with a bunch of questions. She answered all them this morning. Turns out, the dog costs about $4000. Initially, that seems like a lot of money. But when you think about it and put it in perspective to real life, it is really only 30 pairs of decent shoes, or 10 good handbags. I mean, you are buying A LIFE - someone who will love you unconditionally (unless you forget to feed them), someone you can bring with you everywhere, and that will always be by your side, even if you get fat and/or ugly. I think $4000 is a pretty good deal.
I know some of you will say I should just get a boyfriend because they are a lot cheaper, but there are huge emotional costs to getting a boyfriend. First of all, they will not always love you if you get fat and/or ugly. They may stick around, but will secretly schtup someone else that goes to the gym and salon regularly. Unconditional love is out of the question -I mean, come on, this is a MAN. And Lord knows that you cannot bring a boyfriend everywhere ("You're going to wear that to meet my friends?"). Finally, a boyfriend won't always be by your side because you simply can't just put most men in a stylish handbag and feed them snacks to keep quiet. They tend to resist that type of thing.
Point is, for love and companionship, I think a Biewer dog is the way to go for me. If I want sex, me and my little Biewer can certainly hit the bars (though I am sure a small dog in a pink Hello Kitty bag will frighten men - unless it's 2am and the bar is closing), and find that "special" man for the night. Simple.
Meanwhile, I will start saving up my money and prepare for my trip to the Canadian breeder. While Charlie was the first step to my emotional awakening, finding this little dog has taken me to new levels of feeling. I am ready to open my heart again, ready to risk pain again, and more than willing to clean up the poop of a dog that will certainly bring to my life more joy and happiness than anything else could ever bring.
I have found a way to buy love, and all it takes is $4k, and a trip across the border.
- A
I can't focus. I can't eat. I can't even drink another PepsiOne.
I can't think about anything else except getting this puppy.
Yes, a puppy.
See, I've never been a big pet person. I haven't found a lot of success and joy when it came to pets. When I was little, I apparently had a dog named "Herman". I don't remember Herman, except from pictures I saw of him licking the PB&J off my face as a one-year old. My dad used to talk about Herman as being the "best damn tennis ball dog ever" - this meant that he could leap high in the air and get a tennis ball in his mouth (the dog, not my dad). My mother, however, hated Herman and that fact that he would lick her clean baby (me) on the face.
One day, Herman allegedly ran away. My dad, now 25+ years divorced from my mother, is still convinced to this day that my mom had some nefarious dealings which contributed to the demise of Herman. I wouldn't be surprised. It's not hard to picture my mother driving deep into the hills of Marin County with Herman, stopping the car, opening the door and tossing a tennis ball into the trees and yelling, "Go, Herman, Go!" and then her racing off. No dog licks her baby and gets away with it.
After Herman, I had a black cat named "Pumpkin". I don't remember this cat very well, except that right before my parents divorced and my mom and I moved way up north, we got another cat "Peaches". In a supposed fit of jealousy, Pumpkin ran away. Pumpkin returned 3 months and 40 miles north later only to show up at our new house, pee on the curtains, and leave. (I have some exbf's I'd like to do this to, but frankly it's too much work to drive over there, break into their house, and urinate on their belongings. If it were easier, maybe.)
My next memory is of Peaches being pregnant and giving birth to kittens in a closet. As an excited 7-year old, I remember going to check on Peaches and the new kittens. I quickly realized that that one kitten was missing, and another kitten was without a head. I remember thinking how brave my mom was for picking up the now stiff and headless kitten and throwing it away in the trash. In explaining this tragedy, my mom told me that Peaches had eaten those hapless kittens because they must have been sick. So in an act of kindness and survival, Peaches ate them to protect the other kittens. Um, yeah. Soon Peaches, the cannibal cat, disappeared. I don't know where she went, but hopefully it was protective custody.
Traumatized by kitten-eating cats, I got obsessed with the idea of a baby chicken. At 8-years old, I took a brown egg (I thought brown = real chicken inside), and wanting to see the egg hatch, I placed it under my pillow between a hot water bottle and my waterbed (it was the 70's, come on). After several disappointing weeks of waiting for this baby chicken to appear from my bed, I think my mom took pity on me, and bought me a real live baby chicken which I named "Woodstock". (I was a big Snoopy fan) Owning a real live chicken wouldn't seem so weird if we lived on a farm, but see, we lived in a townhouse in Santa Rosa, California. We had no backyard, no chicken coop, and certainly no training on how one would raise a chicken. To both of our surprise, this baby chicken grew up quite fast. No longer a cute yellow bundle of joy, it quickly became a full-size chicken, which got its daily exercise running around in the only tiled area of our home: The kitchen.
Upon returning home from school one day, Woodstock was gone. My mom sat me down and told me that Woodstock had gone to a farm. (No really, he did. I even went to visit him). I am pretty sure at some point we ate him for dinner, but to this day my mom won't admit it (though I almost got her to break on what *really* happened to Herman).
After that disappointing and surreal experience, I wouldn't get another pet until I was 16 years old. It was the early 1980's and I had spiked multi-colored hair, Goth makeup and black clothing. I acquired a pet rat to complete The Look. I can't recall the rat's name, but I remember the great affection I had for this rat. Then, after about 3 months of successful pet ownership, the rat died. I buried him a shoebox in our backyard and pledged never to own another pet. Pets were trouble. They meant pain and sadness. And somehow my mother always got rid of them.
Then about a year ago, my feelings towards pets changed: I met GerRee's dog Charlie. At first, I didn't really like Charlie. He jumped on me, ignoring my loud protests of "Down! No! Asshole!", and got white hair all over my (still) black clothing. He got saliva on me, including my face, even though it was devoid of PB&J. He was demanding of attention, and I was not the person to give it to him.
Then something weird started happening. I started to feel affection for Charlie. I started to look forward to seeing him (almost as much as GerRee), and I started not to care if he got hair all over my clothing (this change in attitude was helped in part by wearing washable black clothing, but still). I didn't mind him sitting on my lap and drooling all over me. I even liked to embrace him and say in a goofy voice, "I wuv my wittle Charlie warlie!"
I knew my fate was sealed for future pet ownership when Charlie and I got to spend the entire day together. It was an overcast day, gray and cloudy with scattered showers, and one of the best days of the year. Upon my arrival at GerRee's house, Charlie was so happy to see me. He gladly hopped into my car's passenger seat, and relished hanging his head out the window. As we ran errands and I would go inside the store, I would come back to the car to see him sitting in the driver's seat as if to say, "Get in. I'll drive." Later, we went for a long walk in the park that surpassed any walk I had ever taken with a significant other. Charlie listened to me talk about myself for hours on end, except when he was sniffing some interesting object like an old pop can or dead rotting bird. Later, back at my house, I even let him sit on my Crate and Barrel couch, knowing, but suddenly not caring, that his white fur would be a bitch to get off that furniture.
I had been turned and now I wanted my own dog.
But what dog would I own? Lord knows there was not another Charlie, and I couldn't seem to convince GerRee and Lee to give him up to me. Trying another angle, I suggested that GerRee pick out my dog and raise it for me for a few months and then hand it over. Surely her dog-rearing skills would result in another Charlie-like animal. Alas, they wanted to keep Charlie all to themselves and didn't want to raise a dog on my behalf.
Undeterred by GerRee and Lee's selfishness, I made a mental list of the things I wanted in a dog:
1. Cute
2. Incredibly cute
3. Able to fit in a stylish handbag
4. Low-maintenance
Given this criteria, I briefly dabbled with the idea of getting a long-haired Chihuahua, Toy Poodle, or Bichon Frise, but those dogs simply didn't appeal to me. Finally realizing that there is no such thing as #4, I had somewhat decided on getting a West Highland Terrier, knowing it would have to buy a fairly large handbag, but confident Louis Vuitton made something that would work. I liked the Terrier personality and the white fur (I know, shallow, but what can I say?). Having made this decision, I sat down last night to find a local breeder online. Then by some sort of serendipity, I found the dog of my dreams: A Biewer
What the hell is a Biewer you might ask? Good question. I spent about 3 hours online last night researching this German-bred dog, and while I won't go into great details here, the dog fits all the criteria listed above, except of course #4. Basically it's this itty-bitty dog that became its own breed in 1984 in Germany, and is close to being a Yorkshire terrier. Basically, it's the kind of dog my father, and any other red-blooded male, would hate. It's small, cute, and incredibly gay - basically the things I look for in a man, but without the fur.
Here are some links:
Biewer breeder in Ottawa (in case you forgot, that's Canada)http://www.biewers.com/index.htm
Cutest picture in the entire world:
http://www.gotpetsonline.com/pictures/gallery/dogs/alphabetically/biewers/biewer-0016/
Handbag I would want for my dog:
http://www.glamourdog.com/hobokittybag.html
(I'm so lame, I know)
I could post about 20 other links which I now have saved in My Favorites, but I won't make you suffer through my Biewer obsession.
I emailed the Canadian breeder last night with a bunch of questions. She answered all them this morning. Turns out, the dog costs about $4000. Initially, that seems like a lot of money. But when you think about it and put it in perspective to real life, it is really only 30 pairs of decent shoes, or 10 good handbags. I mean, you are buying A LIFE - someone who will love you unconditionally (unless you forget to feed them), someone you can bring with you everywhere, and that will always be by your side, even if you get fat and/or ugly. I think $4000 is a pretty good deal.
I know some of you will say I should just get a boyfriend because they are a lot cheaper, but there are huge emotional costs to getting a boyfriend. First of all, they will not always love you if you get fat and/or ugly. They may stick around, but will secretly schtup someone else that goes to the gym and salon regularly. Unconditional love is out of the question -I mean, come on, this is a MAN. And Lord knows that you cannot bring a boyfriend everywhere ("You're going to wear that to meet my friends?"). Finally, a boyfriend won't always be by your side because you simply can't just put most men in a stylish handbag and feed them snacks to keep quiet. They tend to resist that type of thing.
Point is, for love and companionship, I think a Biewer dog is the way to go for me. If I want sex, me and my little Biewer can certainly hit the bars (though I am sure a small dog in a pink Hello Kitty bag will frighten men - unless it's 2am and the bar is closing), and find that "special" man for the night. Simple.
Meanwhile, I will start saving up my money and prepare for my trip to the Canadian breeder. While Charlie was the first step to my emotional awakening, finding this little dog has taken me to new levels of feeling. I am ready to open my heart again, ready to risk pain again, and more than willing to clean up the poop of a dog that will certainly bring to my life more joy and happiness than anything else could ever bring.
I have found a way to buy love, and all it takes is $4k, and a trip across the border.
- A
posted by Ashley at 10:16 AM
2 comments
