Chanel

There are very few things that are certain in my world.

Since getting married I've grown very accustom to changing apartments, packing boxes, entertaining new ideas, trying new things, going on spur-of-the-moment adventures, eating new foods, and being VERY flexible about my plans both for today and for life.

So, I cling to the stability of knowing that Danny loves me, my parents will always have a yellow/orange/green kitchen, the Bible is true, and a dog will not set foot in my home until my children wear me out with their incessant begging and pleading.

Tonight, when I go home from work my world as I know it will come crashing to an abrupt halt. There will be a dog in my apartment.

Anyone who knows anything about me could probably list half a dozen reasons "Why Laura Hates Dogs" without even blinking an eye.

• They smell
• They shed
• They jump on me
• "Do you realize you're carrying around a bag of poop?"
• They sit their little, exposed hiney hole right on the couch where I was going to sit
• They know I'm not their friend, so they like to jump on me more than other people.
• and on, and on, and on

Somehow I'd accidentally claimed the "dog hater" title without even trying, although I never set out to hate dogs and never even realized my aversion to them until a bad college experience.

And so, in a probably hasty decision, and because Chanel is too cute for words, I'll become a poop-carrying dog owner.

But, I must set the record straight:

• She is not our child or my parent's "grandog."
• You will never hear me utter Chanel in conjuction with my last name
• I will not let her lick my ice cream cone
• She will not sleep in bed with us
• And, if Danny's walking with me, then I'll make him carry the poop.

Don't worry - the "how we ended up with a dog" story and more pictures are forthcoming.