031

Jan 31, 2008 :: Temporarily open, Peachtree Street

I've been in what I'd call negotiations with a rescue group about a very sweet Olde English Bulldogge puppy for the past couple days. Blake's thrilled. I'm thrilled--but trying to contain all excitement until such time as I have been deemed a fit pet owner and might be granted the puppy. I won't go into what I think about rescue group methods and such, except to say that I wholly understand that the people who work for them are volunteers, and that they spend inordinate amounts of time and money caring for unwanted animals, so I'd imagine they'd want to be particular about who they offer them to. I would be. But it's still kind of daunting to fill out the forms, wait for the home visit, and then wait more for the go-ahead to adopt.

Anyway, I love dogs. Jane would probably tell you that I'm a good friend, that our walks are always fun, that Blake's a nice guy with a warm lap nearly always available. She'd probably also say that I don't offer enough treats or T-bone steaks. (I say tough, Jane. Nobody likes to get fat.) The only pet I've ever lived with that wasn't a rescue was Arrow--and he was at least on sale when we got him. Blake and I are both experienced dog owners. Jane's a very happy, very loved, very spoiled puppy. Dave is healthy, content, purry, and the uncontested ruler of the household. We've got a house that I own, a fence, a park across the street, a thriving dog-culture in the neighborhood, and friends who love to puppy-sit. I guess I shouldn't worry about anything. But I still am. I think I'm put off by feeling like we're being judged, and I'm afraid, will be judged harshly. I just hope for the best here. We'd offer any puppy a fantastic home.

I'm anxious to find out what happens...