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How To Choose Your Owner

1/18/2012

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I was born at the end of October, and when I was around five weeks old, the sponsor of my litter hosted a Christmas party.  We were, needless to say, adorable, and guests wandered in throughout the evening to coo and cuddle and inhale the fragrance of puppy breath. 

I endured this silly behavior as I waited patiently for Maggie to enter the room. When at last she did, I extricated myself from my siblings and walked towards my sponsor’s latest newfangled idea…a litter box for puppies.

Before I go on, let me say I have no idea what she was drinking when she came up with that one. What puppy with the slightest shred of integrity would choose do his business in a cat potty (with the possible exception of a few minor toy breeds)? 

Nonetheless, Maggie watched with baited breath to see if I understood the purpose of this box. I eyed its gritty contents, building up the suspense, and resisting the urge to plunge in and scatter the nasty stuff in all directions. Finally, I stepped aboard. As I turned and slowly lowered my butt, she murmured a word of encouragement. I definitely had her attention, even if it was a tinkle she was expecting.  That, of course, was entirely beneath my dignity. Instead, I carefully took a seat on the sand, tilted my nose up in a look she’d soon come to recognize, and quietly surveyed the wriggling pile of red fur that was my loopy brothers and sisters.
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Obviously, I was irresistible, and mere seconds passed before Maggie reached down and lifted me into her arms, at which point I gazed into those wonderful, familiar blue eyes and snuggled into her sweater. My job was done. I was going home.
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