Someone Remind Me Why?

I've always wanted a big dog. My whole life, even as a little girl, I dreamt of having an exceptionally large... nay, mammoth dog. A moose of a dog, one that would turn heads and keep intruders at bay, a companion whose presence would never go unnoticed. Never mind that big dogs mean big messes, and unlike every other hardwood floored house I had ever lived in, our most recent was fully carpeted in a pale and lovely, wall to wall, up and down the stairs, soft aqua plush.

Then came Phinneus. It started innocently enough. I read on a popular site one day about the charm of the Great Pyrenees breed and was smitten. I wasn't really ready for that kind of new addition to my household (thinking of my pale aqua plush underfoot) but the day my husband (who has a history of "gifts that keep on giving") called and said he'd found my Christmas present, I was a goner.

Puppies of all breeds have a certain "je ne sais quoi" about them, an irresistible quality capable of turning the most unyielding of us into cooing, cuddling, softhearted suckers. The fact that this puppy had one brown eye and one pale blue (along with an affordable price tag) was enough to push me into the realm of fantasy, one where I could see myself cavorting through the woods and strolling my beach with an immense white beast at my side. Somewhere in my dreams, I overlooked the part where a puppy, who was still a toddler for all intents and purposes, would be big enough to sweep the kitchen counters with his snout as he walked by.

Given the number of sticks of relatively expensive, organic butter that I have set out to soften that have subsequently and mysteriously disappeared, it took me awhile to catch on to what was happening. Despite the fact that my behemoth 7 month old darling has never been given table scraps, never bothered an errant dinner plate, and expresses excitement for only healthy, delectable treats like carrots and apples, (and having found no evidence other than the lack of, and some rather unattractive, previously unidentified stains on my once pale and lovely aqua plush carpet) it appears he has developed a illicit taste for not only butter itself, but apparently the wax paper wrappers it comes in as well.

The fog of infatuation is finally lifting. Next year, I'm getting hardwood floors for Mother's Day.