Random Esquire

Have I mentioned that the morning after coming home with Little Filthy, I held him out to her, in my hand, and told Boss that I was going to return him and get my money back?  I didn’t plan on having a half pug, half chihuahua…  with fleas.  It just sort of happened.  When Boss saw him trot out, all 2.8 pounds of him, she gasped and I reached for my wallet.  I suspect that this may be how many purchases begin and end: with a gasp and wallet grasping. Then we discovered that he likes the taste of his own creations, has a tartar problem, drinks coffee, steals my food and occasionally has gas that rivals a human.   But by then, I sort of dug the little guy.

I like it chilly when I sleep so I often crack the patio door before going to bed and wake to find it 60 degrees or cooler.  While Little Filthy is normally relegated to his own Little Filthy bed, I often wake mid sleep-cycle to find that he has jumped on the bed and is sleeping on top of me, or even under the covers.  Apparently, he was chilly last night because I woke to him rustling under the covers and nudging me to get up and feed him.  I groaned, rolled over and pulled the covers over my head.  My eyes opened slowly.  It smelled like… like butt.  Then I realized that Little Filthy had Dutch ovened me.  I groaned, “Dog!” and pushed the covers off.  He bounded up the bed and landed on my stomach.  Oomph.  I sighed, stretched, and yawned.  Mid-stretch, eyes squeezed shut, mouth wide open, he pushed his face toward mine and the monster licked my teeth.  I admitted defeat and got up to feed him.

Here he is, in his Little Filthy puppy glory, looking like he’d never dream of interrupting your sleep or baking a potato on your mother’s Oriental rug or steal the cheese off your sandwich.

Monster.