(You have to read the title like they say, "Sharkbait, ohh hah hah" in Finding Nemo.)

I sort of feel like I wasted yesterday.

There was a moment, while dogs were eating and cats were reclining, with the tv on low and the husband not home yet, where I was perfectly content.  It was relaxing.

I picked up the holiday cards and I'm pretty pleased with the work.  Now, it's just a matter of addressing them and seeing if I can convince the hubs to pay for postage.  We've still got a few gifts to get and, honestly, I haven't purchased a darn thing for the man.

And I might be a dork, substituting my canine children for the human children I don't have, but Scarlette turns ten in March and I was trying to think of things to do to celebrate.  Ten years.  Let's reminiscence for a second.  (Or twenty minutes. Whoops.)

I was in college.  Second year?  Nineteen.  I'd made some questionable choices and ended up dating a horrible boy, W.  He decided that he wanted a dog, so we adopted a mix-breed puppy, Ms. Bitters.  He then decides that Ms. Bitters needs a companion, so we adopt another puppy, Scarlette.  He picked out and named Ms. Bitters.  I picked out and named Scarlette.  The two were actually pretty good friends and we're lucky that they survived the first year.  We didn't do any of the things you're supposed to:  no vet visits (well, Scar went once), no altering, no proper potty training, nothing.  No consideration is made for the necessity of a puppy to have something good to chew on for erupting teeth, so when they start destroying things, W starts popping them with those things.

We rented a house with one of W's friends.  The dogs primarily lived in the back yard, occasionally being brought in when we remembered them.  Still horrible pet owners.  W is a horrible boyfriend.  We break up and I move back in with my mother.  After getting things settled, I go retrieve Scarlette.  I find that she's locked outside, alone, for an undisclosed amount of time.

Quickly, I've replaced W with another boy.  Still no real consideration is made for vet care or good training. She rips the carpet up in one bedroom, trying to get out.  New boy and I get engaged, move in together, combining our two dogs.  His intact Chihuahua has behavioral issues and, after owning Scar for a few years now, I've come to realize that the household would be much improved if both dogs were neutered.  I took her to a chop shop (essentially - just does low cost spays/neuters/vaccines) and she opens the incision climbing into bed with me.  I take her to the (real) vet for the second time in her life and he declares her okay.

After some time, a few months, I realize that new boy is psychopath.  I take Scar back to my mother's for a week, while he moves out.  For six months, life is a blur.  What makes me come home every night and get up every morning:  Scarlette.  (Also, I have a guinea pig named Guineabelle.  ..But she doesn't like me much.)

In quick succession:  I reconnect with D, I get in the car accident that enables me to buy Archie, and I adopt another puppy.  By the time I've moved in with my old bestie, gotten the job at the vet's, and entered a serious relationship with D, both dogs are trained, respectable and up to date.  I've gone from a person who doesn't deserve a dog to a person others seek for information about dog ownership.  What got me there?  Scarlette.

Ah, memories.

After dinner last night, I went out to the barn.  I didn't plan on doing anything with him and just gave him some loving rubs while he ate his beet pulp.  Forget sometimes the importance of having a relationship separate of work.

Tonight, he'll get groomed and loved on and I'll work him in his halter.  If I can convince myself to be a functioning human being after crossing the threshold, I'll try to do the things I really want to:  dog treats and cards and painting my damn nails.

Scar, relaxing on the back of the chair.

Looking pitiful.

Pretty girl.