Monday, October 31, 2011
|*DISCLAIMER: THIS IS NOT ACTUALLY SMIDGEN. OR ME*|
We've bought the books. We've bought the bed. We've bought the toys, the bowls, the waterproof coat with tartan lining (because apparently greyhounds feel the cold and apparently I am the kind of person who coordinates her outfit with her dog's). We've taken her for walks, smuggled her cubes of cheese and generally made a fuss of her in the hope that she won't be too utterly traumatised when she realises she will have to hang out with us all the time. FOREVER.
This time next week, there will be a furry bundle of bones snoozing on our couch, with nobody but us to look after her, and I'm kind of shitting myself. Over a dog. She's not even a puppy. Seriously, you baby people, I am in awe. How does one ever feel prepared? Do you read a million books on every tiny aspect? Do you cross your fingers and hope for the best? Do you simply believe it's never actually going to happen?
I'd be lying if I said I didn't see the dog as a bit of a practice run. Here's hoping we don't fuck it up too badly.