Most Anal Dog Owner. Ever.

Yes, I know it's been a month since I last posted, and I'm sorry. Here's a complete update of our lives in 10 words or less:

We work a lot. We got a dog. The end.

For as long as I can remember, I've loved dogs. I always wanted one, but my family was too busy to tend to the needs of a canine (not to mention the fact that my mother is pretty much convinced that any dog larger than a dachshund will eat her face). I would make friends with our weird neighbors just so that I could play with their dogs. Almost every guy I ever dated had a dog. Needless to say, I'm a dog person.

Or so I thought.

Prior to moving to Louisville, the Man and I tried our hand at adopting a dog. The timing couldn't have been worse, with him moving here while I stayed in Chicago. After a few days, we (ok, I) made the tough decision to give the dog away until we could get settled. Now that we're both working and have gotten into a routine of sorts, the Man brought up the idea of getting a dog. We started looking at local (and in the case of our trip to Chicago at Easter, not so local) animal shelters "just to look." One week later, we came home with Dakota.

I thought owning a dog was as simple as feeding it, taking it for a walk, playing fetch, and picking up poop. Not too difficult, right? So why am I losing sleep hoping and praying she doesn't whine or bark in her kennel in fear of waking the neighbors? (The neighbors whose dogs I almost made "mysteriously disappear" a few weeks ago.) I'm not worried about normal dog behavior issues like eating the remote control or peeing on my new rug; I don't want my dog to lick herself in public. I don't want her to lick herself in the house. I don't want her to lick herself period. I don't want her to bark. I don't want her to smell. I don't want her to have bad breath. I don't want her to shed. I don't want her to throw up. I don't want her to eat bugs. I don't want her to dig her nails into my new rug. I don't want her to spill her water everywhere. I don't want her to jump. I want her to sit quietly in the corner, politely chewing on a non-rawhide bone, smelling like a fresh garden meadow.

Basically, I don't want her to be a dog.

The Man has been my source of reason through this transition, constantly reassuring me that the majority of her behavior is normal. He finds my irrational thinking very entertaining, however, and helps me cope by purposefully making Dakota bark at 10:30pm (God love him). Lord help me for when we decide to have children....I don't think my blood pressure can handle it.

(to be continued)