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Less than a week to go! I assume Daisy’s excited since she’s been sleeping with her Democratic Donkey for a week. I’m certainly excited. Are you?

RLO has always hated Daisy. His hate isn’t exclusively targeted at her, but all pugs. He’s an equal opportunity pug hater, also known as a jackass.

His Daisy hate is why the Christmas present he brought me last night was quite a shock. He presented me with two pug pictures to hang and a leash that lights up in the dark for Daisy.

It wasn’t his generosity that surprised me, RLO is very generous. The pug paraphernalia, however, is so out-of-character. There’s only one explanation: RLO is dying. He’s trying to make his peace with Daisy before he croaks.  Which I appreciate, but I’d rather he spend the extra time washing my dishes, doing my laundry and finally getting rid of his pesky friend Sugar. Don’t you worry, Internet, I’ll prioritize the rest of his life. That’s what good friends are for.

See this pissed off look?  It’s not because I put a coat on her.  It’s because I put a coat on her that doesn’t match her purple nails.  Seriously.  She’s very concerned with fashion.

And here? She’s just plotting my death. I can’t wait until tomorrow when I force her into the dog snow boots I found for her. Pug torture is seriously the best hobby ever!

Last night I was sorta sad, for obvious reasons.

I tried to find something to cheer me up, but since I’m off sugar I couldn’t cope with my usual vice of chocolate peanut butter ice cream. I’d also normally drink a bottle of wine, but I had to work today and Mondays are bad enough without a giant hangover.  Instead I tortured my pug.  WHAT? Isn’t that how all dog owners cope with sadness?

You could call the ASPCA, but I imagine they will just tell you that painting a dog’s nails purple isn’t torture… IT’S LOVE!

Daisy is going to get a big dose of healthy this week, thanks to Anna at Puppenschnoodles!

Anna read my MANY messages on Twitter about Daisy’s sick tummy and was kind enough to contact me to offer her advice on a more holistic approach to Daisy’s rotten ass.  This includes natural dog foods, which don’t contain icky chicken guts, and a special puppy supplement. If you’re having your own dog issues I’d strongly suggest contacting her.

I’m excited to try this natural route, and frankly it works perfectly because I always suspected Daisy was a hippie; ever since that time at the Liberty Park drum circle when she put on a tie die skirt and danced while chanting to the moon goddess.

I’m very much hoping this solves the toxic gas problem we’ve got going on.  I am not kidding when I say Daisy farts could be used as a torture device.  However, if I come home one day to a pug dog who is begging me for dreadlocks,  I’m going to be very upset.

With her new found youth Daisy has been especially hyper lately.  Which is cute, certainly, but can also drive me stark raving mad.

For example, this morning she wanted so badly to play but I ignored her and climbed into the shower.  Rather than her usual morning routine of sleeping on the bathroom floor she brought her stuffed animals into the bathroom, even pushing her Hello Kitty toy into the tub.  So there, in my shower was a wet kitty.  Go ahead and make your own naughty joke here… must I do all the work around here?

Completely annoyed I ignored the dripping wet toy and got out of the shower.  In the process of putting on my robe I tripped over her elephant chew toy.  That’s right, my dog crosses party lines.  The thought made me laugh so hard that I got dressed, ignored the time and took her for a nice, leisurely walk, which resulted in being late for my morning class.

Thankfully the professor didn’t call me out on it.  Otherwise I would have been forced to explain that I’m late for class due to a wet pussy, and there’s no possible way to say something like that without sounding like a sleaze.

Its no secret math is the bane of my existence.  It’s safe to say 80% of my Twitter comments are math related complaints.  The other 20% are about dog farts.

As far as I’m concerned the only good thing to ever come out of math is the “Math Class is Tough!” Teen Talk Barbie from 1992 that was highly controversial, and in my book highly awesome.  I’m still mad at myself for not buying one.

My hate of math is not just limited to school; I am an equal opportunity hater and therefore detest all numbers, not just complex equations. So it was no surprise while at Daisy’s vet appointment on Sunday I found out she is actually a year younger than I thought.  See, even simple math escapes me.

Not believing the vet technician she showed me the chart and explained that Daisy’s birth date of 1997 subtracted from 2008 was indeed 11, not 12. I left in complete embarrassment, but of course immediately called and made a doctor appointment for myself this week in hopes of the same.

Thus far, 33 years old is completely overrated, and I’m ready to go back to 32 again.

Princess Daisy wishes everyone a happy Halloween. Me? I hope everyone gets fat from all the candy. This was obviously the wrong time of year to try and cut back on sugar and results in a bitter, mean Sarah. Meaner than usual. Better?

Yesterday I came home from work to find Daisy had a very busy day.

My bedroom floor went from one giant, organized pile of clothing to clothes strewn everywhere. I’ve found when I’m too busy to walk her she naps all day on my clothing. Sounds cute in theory, but a little creepy when you find your bras and panties on the dog bed intertwined with a soggy dog bone.

Apparently when she was done ruining my life she decided to play mama:

Of course it wasn’t intentional, she’s maim anything that got in the way of her food bowl.  She gets pretty rambunctious when she plays with her stuffed animals, which must have resulted in the above.  I laughed and then took the little bitch for a walk–where I lectured her on the importance of not napping with my underwear.