Baby #3

Ever wonder why your family is so embarrassing and weird? Gross even? That’s Cary’s and my family alright. Mom-in-law and little bro-in-law swung by the other night to kindly drop off my borrowed pickup truck, and while we’re chatting in the mild evening air in my tiny backyard, my cat poops in the empty flowerpot, and my dog waits only 15 seconds after she’s done to eat the poop. Fan. Tastic. We force ourselves to keep the vomit down as we scream at Butters, running around the dead grass yard (it dies everywhere she pees) with shit hanging out of her mouth, thinking it’s all a tasty game, and while I try and force Dot into remembering her litter box. What the what?!

So some people think maybe their first two screw-up children were just chance, that they should try for the third charm. Yup, that’s me now. It’s also funny how the pet world has transformed me into someone who accepts the coat of white hair my PJs have inherited and the grass and dirt and spilled water bowls that grace our abode’s floors, even a little bit of giving into whining and face licking. Baby steps.

Here’s my justification like any well-intentioned but not necessarily good expecting mother:

• The breed: Corgi. They’re Welsh. Like me. Only pure and not one millionth.
• The gender: Male. Because Butters (a girl) fell in love with Cary (a boy) more than me (a girl).
• The name: Beans. Butter beans… Like from the South… Get it?!!
• Their legs are short. Like mine. Therefore, I can feel like I’m really taking him for a run instead of a walk while I run with Butters. She’s laughing at me inside that little doggy head, I know it.
• They like to sit on your feet. They’re feet warmers! If they’re good enough for the Queen’s feet, they’re good enough for mine.
• Those ears. Those eyes. What’s not to like? Hush, Erin.

The key will be to wait for the perfect fit. Wait for it. Wait for it. And no younger than two years. That puppy image will not dissuade me. Will not. Will not. Is there a corgi rescue somewhat near Pensacola? Absolutely.