monkeygurrrrrl asked how old pickles is. well, we think he's three but who the hell really knows? i mean, he might, but how's he going to tell us? pee in three consecutive circles? i wish he wouldn't.
the story of pickles is this: one day, about a month after we moved Here, Boy and i decided we should consider getting a dog. the next day we got one, because i am (as previously noted) rather insane. once i got the idea in my head and the landlord's ok, i was on a mission.
we browsed on the web for local shelters and found this one dog who was way cute, all spottie and with smurf-blue eyes. unfortunately, when we met him he was a canine version of all jumpy and chewy and barky and generally not apartment or shoe collection friendly. and while i have a history of beginning relationships with broken men so that i can be TheOne who healed them (don't judge me! i am a woman who cares too much!), i am indeed trying to change this behavior. so we looked around.
we narrowed it down to two dogs who were more our speed. taco was a little brown thing (though not filled with refried goodness), who was very sleek and young friendly and energetic. pluto (as he was called then, poor little guy) was quiet and almost imperceptable in the back of his kennel. they told us he had been there nearly a year, since the halfway house he lived at shut down. so we took him home.
he fell InLove with Boy in the first few days, because i was working at that point and Boy had not yet started. he has some neuroses, like he won't cross the street if the gutters are rainy, or walk over a street grate, and that whole urine thing, but he's pretty cute so we let it slide. except for when we chain him to the radiator and beat him with sticks.
and ever so kindly, Valancy Jane offered to repair the dirty rotten kitty. but i feared putting it in the mail might get me arrested for transfer of toxic substances. that thing has spent the last six months in pickles' mouth. i hate to write this on the internets, because he might see it and accuse me of poor doggie-mama-rie (sounds like comeraderie. i make up words. wanna fight about it?), but good god it smells. so instead of attempting to recreate the past, and since he is (probably) three and ready to deal with matters like this, we explained to pickles that dirty rotten kitty has gone to a better place.
called the dump.
and then we got him a new one, like any good parents trying to buy their child's love do.