Reading: On the Banks of Plum Creek by:Laura Ingalls Wilder
I can't think of anything to write about, so here's a picture of a puppy.
That is The Puppy aka Francesca aka Smushy-Face Bongo-Head.
She was born in a junkyard and had a very hard first few months of life. She's covered in scars from god knows what and had to be socialized by yours truly before she would even be in the same room as a human. Hell, she still doesn't like very many people, but who does?
We're not sure what mix of breeds she is. Her mother looked like a lab/collie mix, but as you can see, Francesca is rather...different. Sometimes I think she looks like a dingo and other times she jumps around like a coyote. Then, when she smiles, I swear there's pit-bull in her hence the Smushy-Face.
She, like Howie, is a special breed.
My mother says that when I move out, I have to take her w/me. "You're her favorite, Molly. She thinks you're her big sister," she says. True. That puppy follows me around everywhere and I'm the only one who will go outside at midnight to run around w/her.
If you look closely at her nose, you will see a little black spot on her muzzle. That's her rooster kiss. When Luke was still alive, Francesca stuck her nose under the fence and Lukey, um, kissed her. She let the rooster do his thing from then on. This was over a year ago and she still has the scar.
Yeah, so she's not technically a puppy anymore. Whatever.
Last night, I was jumping around the kitchen w/her and singing "What's new puppy dog? Whoa-ah-whoa." She liked that.
So that's my puppy.
Forever 23, my ass - 01.25.06
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My nose hurts - 01.16.06
And really bad eggs - 01.13.06
I ain't no Alex Trebek - 01.11.06