I really wanted to post the story of how I got my dog, which is what I originally intended when I created a blog. So here it goes:
I had been begging my parents ('member how I said I would get in trouble if I told you my real age?) for roughly six years to get a dog. I had no particular preference in breed until a short time ago, when I desperately wanted an Italian Greyhound. If you aren't familiar with the breed, it's very similiar to the American Greyhound but about a third of the size. The are very sweet and loving.
I was fighting a war against my parents, sending emails and leaving notes and droppping hints and spending hours on the computer, searching for information on breeds and shelters. I spent hours on the computer, sifting through every nook and cranny of Petfinder, all, of course, to no avail. After sending my mother a particularly cold email, I was beginning to think all hope was lost.
Last Tuesday, as the bus rounded the corner onto my street, I saw my grandmother standing in the parking lot in front of my complex. Oh, no. The only time she came over, other than holidays and birthdays, was to assist in making my room inhabitable for normal humans. Most times, anyone that strolled into my room couldn't tell you the color of the carpet, but they would be able to tell you what clothes I wore yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that. I dreaded the mere thought of making sense of that disaster area.
The bus stopped, and I practically threw myself out the doors. My mind was already spewing excuses as to why my room was so dirty when she had cleaned it not two weeks ago. I don't think I even bothered to say are you busy, can you come over, let's go to Wendy's to my best friend Stina as was our custom. I hurried over to the silver Chyrsler in the parking lot, my moss-green backpack swinging wildly from my loose grip.
Her back was to me, and I didn't bother to wait for her to face me. "Hi!" I said breathlessly, recovering from my sprint to the parking lot. "How long have you been waiting--?"
She turned around. And nestled in her arms was the most adorable blob of wheat-colored fur the world ever did see. I stood there, waiting for her to say something, but she was silent, studying my reaction with a smile. My mouth moved. Nothing happened. I tried again. Still nothing. The first thing I managed to force from my lips was, "Can I hold her?"
She wordlessly shifted the dog from her arms to mine, and I studied the creature in my arms, this gorgeous, living, breathing animal, with her dark, olive-colored eyes and slightly pointed snout, her long fur, accented by a single honey-colored stripe running from the tip of her wet, squishy nose to her long, wagging tail. One ear flopped up, one flopped down, and they were both the same color as her stripe.
It's sounds cheesy, but it's all very true. After much debating, we named her Mocha for the color of her fur. She's 12 weeks old, not housebroken, not crate-trained, not leash-trained. I have a feeling all of us are in for a real adventure.
