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Saturday morning after carefully examining Daisy, the vet agreed I should probably let her go.

I cried.

He hugged me.

It was awkward.

He sensed my hesitation and gave me a second option: pain and anti-inflammatory medication. I asked for a few minutes to think about it and immediately called my brother. Putting my dog down was not something I wanted to do alone. Ben didn’t pick up, so I selfishly put off the inevitable and asked the vet to medicate her for pain.

I took Daisy home and within a few hours she was wagging her tail–something she hasn’t done in quite some time. My wise friend Susan said if I’m not ready, Daisy isn’t ready. I think she might be right.

I know I’ve got to let her go sooner or later, but it’s going to have to be later. I need more time with her, and my brother needs time to hold this over my head. I can hear him now, “No, Sarah I won’t fix your garbage disposal. I already saved your dog’s life this month. Isn’t that enough?”

I want Monday back. I know, right? I hate Mondays, yet I want last Monday and every Monday before that back. I would do anything to have the ability to rewind time.

Why?

Skinny thighs and a face without wrinkles. Duh. But that’s not all. I want more time with Daisy.

That silly, little one-eyed pug who stole my heart 13 years ago isn’t going to be here much longer. My girl can barely get around these days. She can’t jump on the couch or even go on a nightly walk. It’s fucking heartbreaking. I’ve selfishly been trying to ignore her pain because I can’t image life without her, but it’s time to stop thinking about myself and think about her.

Saturday we’re going to take a trip to see her least favorite person in the world: her vet. He will assess her pain and tell me if it’s time to let her go or not. Just thinking about it brings tears to my eyes. I’m not sure if I can do this, but I guess I don’t really have a choice.

I’m so not ready for this. And yet I have to be.

Do you remember the Mr. Men and Little Miss books from the 80s? I loved them! My mother would refer to me as Little Miss Bossy, Little Miss Trouble, Little Miss Stubborn, Little Miss Bad or Little Miss Naughty depending on my mood and behavior. Not once did she call me Little Miss Helpful, Little Miss Neat, Little Miss Sunshine or Little Miss Splendid.

I think it’s safe to assume my mom was calling me Little Miss Asshole, behind my back.

Since then, I’ve often describe my moods with the book characters. And now, for the first time ever, Little Miss Scatterbrain has surfaced. Bitch. Wait… did I just call the character a bitch or myself a bitch? Both are accurate, I suppose.

Lately I am so all over the place. Sure everyone is scattered now and then. How many of us misplace our keys on a daily basis? Me. And probably you. That’s normal and not at all what I’m dealing with. I’m forgetting important life details. Like how many eyes my puppy has.

TRUE STORY.

I’ve been accidentally kenneling the wrong dog. The first few times I was convinced someone was breaking into my house and switching dogs just to fuck with me.

Because, seriously, the difference is obvious:

I’m hoping Little Miss Scatterbrain moves along soon. Otherwise I’m going to end up Little Miss Drinks Herself Into a Coma. That’s a character, right? Well it should be.

Yesterday I spend a significant amount of time looking at local classifieds for a pug puppy to bring home.

And then I came home to Daisy eating her own shit in the backyard.

After a considerable amount of dry heaving and a few tears later,  I took her into the house to clean her up. I put her in the tub and brushed the shit out of her teeth. Literally. I was still worried about her catching pink eye, athrax, cyptosporidioosis, anthrax, hantavirus and every other communicable disease imaginable, so I decided to use something that would kill bacteria.

Enter half a bottle of Lysol Disinfecting Wipes.

Enter a semi-reportable case of animal cruelty.

Poor, poor Daisy. SHIT EATING DAISY.

Afterward I felt guilty that I pretty much put bleach in her mouth so I gave her a treat and poured myself a glass of wine. Which I promptly set down in order to put the cleaning supplies away. In my STILL panicked state I accidentally set the glass where Daisy could reach it.

Um, yeah. I think I have a wino pug. I also think it’s safe to say we both deserved the wine buzz we got last night.

My dog is an asshole. I’m not being harsh, she totally is.

Yesterday it snowed like crazy at my house. I’m pretty sure the storm hovered right over my driveway and left the rest of the city alone. The weather just loves that I’m single and stuck shoveling snow all alone. Now that I think about it, the weather is also an asshole.

I tried to make Daisy the Pug come outside while I shoveled so she could get some fresh air, but she refused. Instead she sat inside and sipped some brandy while smoking a cigar, or whatever the hell it is old people do all damn day.

She looked out the dog door every twenty minutes to mock me.

Which, to be honest, I deserved the mocking. I was too lazy to get dressed yesterday and shoveled snow in pajama pants without underwear. One thin layer of cotton is not enough to protect my lady bits from the cold, harsh winter elements.

I learned my lesson and will be buying thermals as soon as I dig myself out of this bullshit snow.

It’s been a rough week, but rather than enter meltdown mode I decided to take a break from studying and spend time with Daisy the Pug. Poor girl hasn’t had any attention lately.

So maybe not quality pet time, but seeing the container stuck to her head made me laugh. I really needed that laugh, so I’m sure she’ll forgive me. Or she’ll get all passive-aggressive with her farts. I’ve lived through worse.

I’ve always known I’m pretty. Unlike other pugs I’ve never struggled with self-esteem issues. I’m beautiful inside and out. Despite what Sarah says, even my farts are lovely. They smell like unicorn and pink glitter. And sometimes rainbows… that sorta depends on what I had for dinner.

I am pug goddess; hear me roar!

I live a pretty sweet life. I get to nap a lot and occasionally bark at the new mail lady. I think Sarah is incredibly jealous, because last week she yelled at me to get off the fucking couch and get a job. Rather than poop in her closet, I went out and landed a modeling job. That’ll show her.

Wait, I’m not sure what it will show her. I mean that’s what she wanted, but still she’s dead to me until she apologizes and feeds me treats.

Anyway.

Behold my first modeling job:

This is an ad for Harmons grocery store. If you shop there (and you should because Sarah’s friend Danielle works there) pick up a copy of the October ‘Keepin’ it Fresh’ to either frame, or display on the refrigerator.

Don’t worry my sweet, little lambs I’ll still remember the little people when I land the cover of Doggy Vogue. I’m a sweet bitch like that.

Watching this video you may think I have nothing better to do than sit around and film my freaking dog. You’d be wrong, which may be the reason I’m behind in school readings. BUT, at least you know I’ve started packing my kitchen!

“Sarah, did I lose your dog?”

“No, Ben, I haven’t even dropped her off yet.”

“Oh good. I was so worried I’d already lost her.”

That conversation was not the most comforting thing in the world. Yet, I still took a chance and let my brother keep Daisy while I was traipsing in the woods trying to hug coyotes after drinking way too much wine.

Ben assured me that nothing would happen to her, and I was stupid enough to believe him.

When I picked Daisy up this is where I found her:

She was so hungover that she didn’t even hear me come in and I was able to catch her laying in the aftermath of a passionate night with Willie Nelson.

My bitch made me proud. Also, I’m going to kill my brother.