Donnie the Dog

Lindsey and I have a dog named Donnie.  We did not name him.  We adopted him in May of 2008, at the ripe old age of 4 years, and the name came with him.  I like to think it’s short for something cool, like Donatello.  More likely, it’s an homage to Donnie from the New Kids on the Block.

Such is life.

Anyway, we come to the point of our rambling.  We have not paid a pet deposit to our new apartment complex, so he can not be with us quite yet.  He is currently residing at my mother’s house.  While there is a lot of room for him to play (and crap all over, the little shit machine), he does not receive a great deal of attention.  With my schedule the way it was last week, I wasn’t able to make it over to see him, which means he hasn’t seen me in almost (but not quite) two weeks.  As I entered the garage this afternoon and called to him, he bolted for me, almost sliding into the wall (he has a hard time slowing down on cement, it makes him slide in a silly way).  Before I was able to kneel down to start petting him, he ran up and started licking the closest thing he could reach: my jeans, a little less than knee high (he’s a terrier-chihuahua mix, very short little shitter).  He missed me very much, and made quite the fool of himself when he saw me (the little shit factory that he is).

He shit on the carpet once.  A very nice, very expensive Persian hand-woven rug.  He also shit on the garage welcome mat, but I didn’t notice that one until I had ruined my favorite flip-flops in it.  You’ll just have to pardon me for holding his fascination with shitting all over creation against him.

-Because I said so

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