Well shit.

We were working in the right direction. Only a cat left. A few rabbits but those are nature’s version of chicken nuggets so they wouldn’t be any trouble to turn loose and allow cats or owls or cars to finish the job. We were almost free and Supermom had to scroll on Facebook Friday afternoon and notice that the local Humane Society was holding a sidewalk sale the next morning. Little boxer-mix puppies that could be picked up and played with. Oh joy.

I made her swear a blood oath that it was “just to look” and that we would most definitely not be bringing one home. She pinkie-swore.

Then a strange thing happened.

I still don’t understand the chain of events. One minute we are looking at the cute little puppies and studying their personalities and the next I am holding this sweet snuggly dog. Her ears were soft just like Biscuit’s had been. The last thing I did when I said goodbye to Biscuit was to stroke her ears. I held them against my cheek and kissed her goodbye. They were so soft. These new ears were just as soft. Plus she was the same color brown and she rested her head on my hand the same exact way. If I were Hindu, there would be no doubt that this dog was my first diapered daughter, reincarnated.

So… I am holding this new dog and I got lost in the moment of thinking about my old dog. I got a little choked up and I hugged her like a teddy bear. Bad decision. I felt a tear run down my check. Dammit. Then Supermom noticed and asked me if I was okay. Anyone on the verge of an emotional come-apart knows that you should never attempt to talk. So of course I tried to talk. I tried to say, “I am fine. I just miss Biscuit.” Whatever the hell I said, it did not come out that way.

One of my manliest moments can now be described as standing in front of Pet Co, hugging a puppy and crying like a five year old who wants a toy that he can’t have. Did I mention the seven complete strangers who were innocent bystanders? Nothing is quite as uncomfortable as watching a grown man cry over a puppy.

Long story short. We bought the dog. I would say we rescued the dog but we bought her. We had to pay money before we could take her home so I file that under “bought a dog”. Buying a puppy at a flea market for $20 is more of a rescue really.

Second step to puppy ownership is the agonizing process of naming. There were lots of good entries to our naming contest. Lots of good discussion. We settled on Cutie Judy Cornbread. Judy being the primary name for yelling across the backyard. Although I would like to yell, “Cornbread! You get your ass over here right now!” Just to keep rumors of our insanity alive in the neighborhood.

Turns out, Cornbread is an apt name because she has been leaking batter out of her anus for the last few days. Stress, new food, or something called coccidia bacteria. Who knows? I do know that this happened…

What the fuck Judy? My loafer? You have acres of dirty clothes, carpet, hardwood, and tile yet you back the trailer up to a loafer and unload. It was a weird consistency too. Imagine that the cheese industry was faced with hard times and needed to revive their brand so they tried to mix up flavors. Her poop was something like a peanut butter cottage cheese with the odor of dead fish in gym socks.

In my shoe.

No good deed goes unpunished.

If you had intentions of a normal Memorial Day weekend but ended up losing your man-card and three articles of business casual clothing, this post is for you. Me too.

You’re welcome. Let’s all take a nap.

-Underdaddy to the rescue.