It took 3 years.

I was adamant that I did not want another dog.

Ever.

I lost the war because, here I am … the sudden and unexpected owner of a dog that looks like Barry Gibb from behind

and an Ewok from the front.

He is absolutely ridiculous.

Of course, his name is Chewbacca and he is a rascal.

I wasn’t thinking about a dog at all when my husband asked if I would ever consider another dog. Faster than a blink of an eye, he is sending lists of hypo-allergenic small breed dogs. They were adorable so I softened just enough to narrow it down to the Shih Tsu breed.

I even looked for breeders in the area. What a fucking nightmare. I gave up immediately when I saw the price and when I saw the waiting lists and it would be months before the next litters were born. The ones already here were spoken for. Or, they were out of state. I knew I wanted a darker dog because I absolutely detest the tear stains and found only light dogs. I wanted a male and found only females. Blah, blah, blah. I got very bored very quickly and abandoned the quest.

A week later my husband asked if the dog topic was dead. I must have wavered because two hours later he put his phone up to my face and I’m looking at a dark, male Shih Tsu ready for pick up 40 minutes away. Damn!

I won’t mention the price except to say that I will NEVER again complain about ObiWan’s piddly $300 price tag again.

Chewbacca has a black beard, an underbite, and beady shark eyes. I can’t tell if he’s going to be smart or not. He mostly lays around looking like a bad toupee and gets burst of energy that make me question taking on an energetic puppy at my age. I try naming some basic commands over and over and over so he will learn the word with the item like Helen Keller but mostly he stares up at me with blank marble eyes.

He figured out “treat” pretty quickly so I’m hopeful.

I’ve never house-trained a dog because all of my dogs have learned their survival skills directly from braving the elements outside 24/7.

This shit is exhausting. I’m pretty sure I’M being trained, not he. He’s had a few accidents in my house and somehow I’ve not lost my everlasting mind yet. I don’t know how much longer I can pretend being this fucking excited about a dog going potty outside. All he does is look up at me for his treat while I squeal and act like he’s cured cancer.

At least I haven’t had to hose shit out of his sleeping crate in the middle of the night in about 2 weeks. I tell you what – I had some pretty choice words for the coyotes and owls on those nights.

This little fluff ball sits on my couch and has more toys than my kids ever had. I was telling my sister about how he chews on everything. She matter-of-factly told me “You need to buy him chew toys!” as if I don’t trip over them with every step. I run the gauntlet of smushy toys that cause bonafide heart palpitations when they squeak in the darkness. Still, Chewbacca would much rather chew on a stick or my slipper. Oh, also my goddamn furniture!

The fact that my husband greets him before me is a topic for another blahg at a later time.

Excuse me … gotta go and act super thrilled about a dog peeing. I’ll keep you posted.