I could put that precious little face in my mouth and eat her up. What a doll baby. Because she's such a perfect little dog, we were in a quandary trying to decide on which name would suit her best. I suggested Lady Gaga, but my husband said, “No. It should be Lady Godiva, for obvious reasons.” I won that argument because I believe when you give something a name it acts accordingly. My dog will have more going for her than if she were associated with an upscale Hershey Bar.
Lady Gaga has taken a shine to my antique oriental rug, the one my grandmother, God rest her soul, left me when she died. The upside of it is that it seems that our precious puppy-poo, like Granny, has excellent taste. The downside is that she feels it necessary to mark her territory on every square inch of my beautiful rug, the little dickens.
Babe said he didn't mind making an emergency trip to PetSmart at seven o'clock this morning when we completely ran out of puppy peepee pads. He took along a sledgehammer heavy enough to break the glass and rob the store in case it hadn’t yet opened. What a clever man I married. Lucky for him, the manager is a morning person. Babe could only buy five-dozen peepee pads for our little bundle of badness, but that should be more than enough. Surely, it can’t be much longer before she is housebroken.
It is hard for me to understand how, but Puppykins has managed to go through every one of the new pads Babe bought only yesterday, so Lady Gaga scored another point on Granny's rug. My house smells like a nursing home. Lady Gaga’s loving eyes and the cute way she cocks her head to stare straight through me were adorable four days ago, but today, they are getting on my last nurturing nerve. If Babe's dog pees or poops on Granny's rug one more time, they are both history. I have allergies. I have lived all of my life with a firm Animals Don't Live in the House with People Policy. I have limits.
This morning Babe went in search of an open all night pet store in case we need more peepee pads later tonight and just after he left, my doorbell rang. It was the UPS man delivering a new issue of It's All About Moi Magazine. I love getting packages via UPS and flirting with the hot UPS guy. I may be over fifty but I’m not dead. I asked him if, by chance, he suffered with dog allergies. He said he did not. Then he added (with tears pooling in his luscious Paul Newman blue eyes) that he was still mourning for his recently departed Poodle, Tammy Faye. The poor little thing had choked trying to eat his wife’s false eyelashes and within fifteen minutes she had taken a trip to PTL Dog heaven. Feeling obliged to help that poor man out of his sorrow, I gave him Lady Gaga. I hope his burden of grief will be lifted, not as high as Tammy Faye went, but enough to get him through.
I have been grinning for so long my jaws ache. Each time I picture Lady Gaga riding in the front seat of that UPS truck looking so darn happy, I know in my heart that Mr. UPS and Lady Poopoo, uh, I mean Gaga, are a match made in heaven. I will have to muddle through my days while lounging in my now environmentally refreshed and blissfully quiet home with no distractions or smelly rugs, reading my newest issue of It's All About Moi Magazine.