So here’s the deal with my dog Ollie, aka Oliver Seamus, aka Buster: one random day six years ago my good friend Victoria called me.
“I’m at the pound,” she said. “And I found your dog.”
“Uh…” I said. “I don’t have a dog.”
“Yes, you do,” she said, exasperated. “He’s here at the pound waiting for you to come adopt him. So, hurry up.”
She’s bossy, what can I say? I busted down there, laid eyes on this completely insane creature in a cage, and decided, “Hey, I’m sick of none of my shoes getting chewed up and the fact I NEVER get to pick up poop through thin plastic bags. Here’s the solution!”
Kidding. Mostly. But, I mean, just LOOK AT HIM:
Exactly. You’d adopt this thing too. White mohawk? Check. Eerily human-like eyes? Check. Penchant for naps, treats, peeing on palm fronds and being scared of pretty much everything? Check. And now, many years later, he delights, entertains, and confounds me on a daily basis. And the shenanigans. Ohhhhhh, the shenanigans:
Fine, fine. I’ll stop….for now.