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Last night I asked Daisy the Pug if she wanted a baby or a new puppy. She cocked her head after each word, stood up and walked into the kitchen. She scratched the cabinet door open and pulled out the Hello Kitty toaster.

My dog doesn’t want a human baby or a fur baby. She wants fucking toast, which either says a lot about my parenting skills, or that my dog is a selfish whore.

Either way I called my vagina doctor and canceled the appointment to remove my IUD. Which is probably OK because I don’t have the time, money, or penis it takes to make and care for a baby.

The point of this story is that my dog is a selfish whore, not that my biological clock is ticking.

I’ve had a busy week, hence the boring blog. I’m leaving for BlogHer next Thursday and I’m trying to wrap up a bunch of school projects before I leave. This means the majority of Daisy’s time has been spent sleeping instead of demanding I fill her treat stick.

Luckily she hasn’t been too lonely. She had a stuffed friend to snuggle.

That or she’s found the dog equivalent of a blow-up doll which even grosses me out to write, so let’s stick to the snuggle partner.

I adore my dog, but her high pitched barking drives me stark raving mad. I do whatever it takes to avoid that bark. She knows this and usually gets whatever she needs by piercing my eardrums until I do what she wants.

I’m a damn human robot. I hate it, but I hate the bark more.

She has a new treat stick that she rolls around the house like a kibble vending machine until it’s empty. Then she runs around my apartment barking until I refill the thing.

The first time is sorta cute, but after three days of this routine I’m ready to take my bloody eardrums back to work for some peace and quiet.

I have an obsessive personality, so it should come as no surprise that my pug does as well. A case in point is her romance with my Hello Kitty toaster.

Her latest fixation is with celery. Weird, right?

In an effort to eat healthier I recently stocked my refrigerator with fruits and vegetables. One night as I chopped veggies for a salad I accidentally dropped a stalk of celery on the floor. Daisy snatched it right up and ran. I shrugged my shoulders and let her.

BIG MISTAKE!

Now, every night when I come home Daisy barks and whines at the refrigerator until I provide her with the desired celery crack. I don’t think celery will hurt her, and truth be told my voluptuous pug could stand to lose a pound or two. Not to mention she’s freaking adorable wandering around the house with a stalk of celery hanging out of her mouth.

A friend gave me a pug desk calendar for Christmas. And while I appreciate the gift, I found it extremely inaccurate.

The calendar is mocking me!

Daily I’m subjected to glossy photos of two-eyed pugs. It’s like hey I know you love pugs, so why don’t you look at all these cute FULLY FUNCTIONAL pugs. I wasn’t about to sit idly by and take the abuse, so I found a black Sharpie and turned it into a lovely one-eyed pug calendar. I like it much better now. Don’t you?

I have officially turned into a cat lady, except I don’t have cats. Instead I have a dog with a Twitter account. Yup, Daisy is online.

She’s a naughty little puggy with far too much free time. If you’re on Twitter follow her. If you’re not on Twitter I promise you that it’s worth signing up for. Where else are you going to hear about a pug violating a Bill Clinton doll?

I TOLD YOU SHE WAS NAUGHTY.

Now let’s pray she doesn’t write about all that farting she does.

Daisy apparently didn’t get the memo that I went back to school and am working part-time. She thinks expensive medicals tests are a hobby. They so, so aren’t.

The vet clinic didn’t get the memo that a vodka tonic is the epitome of a refreshing drink. As for me? Well I didn’t get the memo that when the receptionist asks you if you would like a refreshing drink she means a warm Sprite, not a bottle of vodka and straw. Another refreshing drink is champagne, which should always be served immediately after informing a worried dog owner that her beloved pug is cancer-free. Daisy does, however, have a a sludge-filled gallbladder, major food allergies and irritable bowel syndrome.

The vet called her a little shit for giving us such a scare. I called the vet a big shit when he told me to keep an ass journal for Daisy. Apparently he’d like to read about the consistency of Daisy’s feces while enjoying a nightcap with his wife. I’d much rather get him a subscription to an interesting magazine, but whatever floats his boat, and keeps my dog alive.

While I’m thrilled there’s nothing serious wrong with her, I’m realistic enough to know we’re in for the long haul here. Daisy’s disgusting farts aren’t going anywhere. And neither is my love for her, although my savings account is. My fart filled apartment has never felt more like home. I’m happy to have the little shit back, but if anyone has any information on the market for one-eyed pug porn let me know. Daisy needs a job. And preferebly one with health benefits.

I really need a dose of positivity right now, hence today’s Grace in Small Things post.

1 Receiving Valentine’s Day cards in the mail
2 Reese’s Puffs breakfast cereal
3 Clean sheets
4 My niece, Hannah, agreeing to take me to Starbucks

I dropped Daisy off at the vet clinic early this morning for a day of tests. I’ve put this off as long as I could, but it’s time to admit to myself that she’s sick, and NOT getting better. The vet has been treating her with antibiotics on and off for the past year, but sadly it’s not helping.

I’m hoping today will provide some answers about what’s going on. This dog is my kid, and I need her to be OK. I’m scared, but forcing myself to remain positive. Positive thinking apparently includes calling the clinic every single hour to check on her. I’m that dog owner.

I found this old picture of Daisy in a book last night, which reminds me exactly why I love her so much. Look at her acting nonchalant while another dog tries to stick his tongue down her throat. That’s my girl!

I put the picture on the refrigerator. I need to have it close so I can be reminded of how much I love her when she’s bad. The little bitch figured out how to open the child-proof locks I recently placed on the lower kitchen cabinets.

It’s not like there’s food for her to get into–it’s where I keep kitchen appliances. Yesterday I came home to find the Hello Kitty toaster on the floor. I can’t figure out if she’s trying to get toast crumbs, or if Hello Kitty is a giant slutbag trying to stick her tongue down my dog’s throat.

I’m not the only one immersed in the college lifestyle, though Daisy is way more relaxed about college than I am. With her popped collar Polo shirt, she’s obviously more into the fraternity lifestyle than the actual education.

I’m not going to worry about her until I come home to find her making out with slutty sorority girls, or passed out in her own vomit.