Call us crazy (Lord knows we’ve been thinking it too!), but we adopted a little pound puppy. Straight from the Irving Animal Shelter, this little black ball of goodness is Chicago.
Because he has White Sox.
Guess which one of us named him?
Yes, Jay used up his two cents and named our new friend. Chicago is a three-month old little tuft of energy. Krystal jokes that Toby is the well-groomed, British twit and Chicago is the rough, street-rat somehow related to the mob.
I have my suspicions.
The two are getting along…semi-well. As we speak, err–I type and you read–Toby is chasing poor Chicago around the house, hoping the new addition will drop his toy.
Much to their dismay, I’m about to put up the toys and head straight to bed. The new nighttime routine (adopted by an angry dog-mother at 4 a.m. this morning) is that we’ll put the dogs in their separate crates, cover the cages with blankets, go in our bedroom, shut the door and turn on somewhat loud music to distract us from the whining and whimpering that, inevitably, will ensue.
Will it work? We shall see….
Otherwise, the next post you read might be entitled, “Dogs for Sale-Free or Best Offer.”