Nothing says the holiday season so much as the viewing of National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation. I just love that movie - so many laughable moments... cousin Eddie, Snot the rottweiler, the cat that got fried for nibbling on the tree lights and the squirrel scene. The first time I saw the squirrel scene, I laughed until I had tears running down my face. No matter how many times I see it, I still think it's terribly funny.
The one DVD player we have in the house only plays UK DVDs. I was surprised and pleased to find a UK copy of it at our local Sainsbury's for just a fiver along with two other Christmas movies that really aren't worth mentioning. Christmas Vacation was the little nugget of gold in the three for five packaging.
Here is the famous squirrel scene. Take a watch and laugh like a loon... I always do!
Friday, December 9, 2011
Monday, December 5, 2011
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall
Last night was a humdinger. The youngest daughter and I took Ollie out for a potty break after he ate his supper. In typical puppy ADHD fashion, he kept getting distracted by the holly bush and running right to it. The problem was that there's a big mud puddle all around it, so the youngest daughter kept carting him out of the puddle. On about the fourth puddle rescue mission, when we were ready to head back inside, the youngest daughter was hauling the beast out yet again when he nipped her on the hand. He's just 10 weeks old so it's not as if she lost a hunk of flesh. However, this daughter suffers nothing in silence or with great fortitude, so she squealed and promptly let him go, whereupon he fell several feet down to the concrete pavers of the driveway and landed with a splat.
He immediately emitted this horrible puppy scream and started spinning around in a tight circle. I catch Ollie and pick him up. He stops the horrible I'm-about-to-die hollering but is shaking like a leaf. The youngest daughter and I head towards the house when the older daughter comes outside to see if we've killed the pup. Not yet, I tell her. I'm definitely NOT the person you want to call in a crisis because I'm too busy falling apart. Seriously - I can't even handle a splinter. The girls like to poke fun at me by coming up with a hand extended and telling me they think they have a splinter. It just gives me the willies and makes me feel ill.
So in true Carrie freak out fashion, I had the girls go get my husband. Hallellujah - he comes downstairs and commandeers the pup situation. I was convinced Ollie had broken his spine until my husband had him walk a bit. Then I was sure that Ollie had a concussion because he fell asleep in the blink of an eye. When he continued breathing, I gently poked Ollie's sides because I imagined he had some sort of internal bleeding.
He slept for a bit in my husband's lap while I fretted. My husband put Ollie in his doggie room (the converted garage) where he got a drink of water and gingerly crawled into his crate. By then I was just a basket case. I assumed I would get no sleep with visions of thousand pound emergency vet bills or brain damaged/crippled pups running through my head. Drastic times calling for drastic measures equaled two over the counter sleeping pills for me.
I woke up this morning and crept downstairs to find acold, stiff body perky Ollie reared up on the baby gate waiting for me to cart him over so he could take his morning potty stroll. He seems none the worse for wear, thank goodness. The new house rule is that the youngest daughter can no longer carry Ollie unless I get some sort of doggie life insurance coverage for him.
He immediately emitted this horrible puppy scream and started spinning around in a tight circle. I catch Ollie and pick him up. He stops the horrible I'm-about-to-die hollering but is shaking like a leaf. The youngest daughter and I head towards the house when the older daughter comes outside to see if we've killed the pup. Not yet, I tell her. I'm definitely NOT the person you want to call in a crisis because I'm too busy falling apart. Seriously - I can't even handle a splinter. The girls like to poke fun at me by coming up with a hand extended and telling me they think they have a splinter. It just gives me the willies and makes me feel ill.
So in true Carrie freak out fashion, I had the girls go get my husband. Hallellujah - he comes downstairs and commandeers the pup situation. I was convinced Ollie had broken his spine until my husband had him walk a bit. Then I was sure that Ollie had a concussion because he fell asleep in the blink of an eye. When he continued breathing, I gently poked Ollie's sides because I imagined he had some sort of internal bleeding.
He slept for a bit in my husband's lap while I fretted. My husband put Ollie in his doggie room (the converted garage) where he got a drink of water and gingerly crawled into his crate. By then I was just a basket case. I assumed I would get no sleep with visions of thousand pound emergency vet bills or brain damaged/crippled pups running through my head. Drastic times calling for drastic measures equaled two over the counter sleeping pills for me.
I woke up this morning and crept downstairs to find a
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
Precious little pain in the patootie
Be careful what you wish for because you just might get it. Truer words were never spoken. I longed for a pet to keep me company. Now I've got a Cairn puppy that seems to soak up every leisurely hour, minute and second I used to enjoy.
There's no denying... he is pretty danged cute. On Sunday when we brought him home, he was all nervous and tentative. Now he thinks he owns the place. I'm trying to use my Cesar training on him and it's working... sort of. I can already tell we're going to have a long row to hoe with "potty training" as the girls call it. I would pay a big fat sum of money if someone would train the little guy to use the toilet. He doesn't even have to put the seat back down since the other male in our house still hasn't learned that particular trick.
The very short days at this time of the year in the UK are conspiring against my best efforts at housebreaking. It doesn't get light enough to go outside until after 7:00 am and it's full on pitch dark by 4:30 pm. The lack of light is a big deal for two reasons. The first reason is that the back yard, though quite large, has become booby trapped with little piles of Ollie poop. I don't mind sweeping up dead leaves that get tracked into the house, but I draw the line at mopping up dog doo-doo on a regular basis. The other reason I won't frequent the back yard at night is because our neighborhood foxes might decide Ollie would make a tasty evening meal. I've got a feeling the family would notice if I returned from an evening walk with just leash and no Ollie at the end of it.
There's no denying... he is pretty danged cute. On Sunday when we brought him home, he was all nervous and tentative. Now he thinks he owns the place. I'm trying to use my Cesar training on him and it's working... sort of. I can already tell we're going to have a long row to hoe with "potty training" as the girls call it. I would pay a big fat sum of money if someone would train the little guy to use the toilet. He doesn't even have to put the seat back down since the other male in our house still hasn't learned that particular trick.
The very short days at this time of the year in the UK are conspiring against my best efforts at housebreaking. It doesn't get light enough to go outside until after 7:00 am and it's full on pitch dark by 4:30 pm. The lack of light is a big deal for two reasons. The first reason is that the back yard, though quite large, has become booby trapped with little piles of Ollie poop. I don't mind sweeping up dead leaves that get tracked into the house, but I draw the line at mopping up dog doo-doo on a regular basis. The other reason I won't frequent the back yard at night is because our neighborhood foxes might decide Ollie would make a tasty evening meal. I've got a feeling the family would notice if I returned from an evening walk with just leash and no Ollie at the end of it.
Thursday, November 24, 2011
What a bunch of turkeys
Today is Thanksgiving... if you live in America. For those of us in the UK, it was just another regular old school day/work day. Yesterday evening I went to the grocery store for a few items and it was blissfully calm. There were no folks dashing down the aisles in search of Karo, pecans, cans of cranberries, a spiral ham or those tasty fried onion rings you sprinkle on top of a green bean casserole. It was all business as usual, which was so very unusual when Americans like me realized it was the day before Thanksgiving.
So how did we spend Thanksgiving? We got the girls off to school and then headed into London to St. Paul's Cathedral. Every year they have an 11:00 service of Thanksgiving for Americans in the London area. We had been told by another expat that we should take the girls out of school for it. However, I knew the younger one would be bored to tears while the older one would complain about having to make up the two tests scheduled for today in Spanish and environmental science.
It was a very nice service, with the American ambassador to England giving a little speech before the sermon that was led by a pastor from the American church in London. I knew the pastor was gonna do a good job at speechifying when he mentioned that southerners made some of the tastiest Thanksgiving birds since they deep fried them. That got a chuckle out of the crowd.
One thing I wasn't expecting this morning was the sight as we rounded the corner of the cathedral...
What a bunch of copycats. Barq's Root Beer and Velveeta Cheese can't jump the pond, but the Occupy movement can? There's definitely something wrong with that little scenario. The occupy folks didn't seem too busy today, though I don't think they really know what their role is at this time. I heard recently that some surveillance was done in the occupy zone using high tech heat detecting instruments and that only about 1/3 of the tents were occupied at night. I guess some of them got tired of sleeping on the hard ground in the cold and took their protesting selves home every evening for a good night's sleep. So quit your ranting and raving about corporate America, those same companies that make all of the niceties and conveniences which make your life very comfortable.
And what did we have for Thanksgiving dinner? Gourmet Burger Kitchen! The husband and I had contemplated a "nice" lunch in the city, but then I felt guilty about not including the girls and suggested we just get a snack and wait for them to get home from school. That way we could all sit down for a family meal at our favorite local Italian restaurant. My dreams of mushroom risotto and prosecco were squashed when my darling little varmints rolled off the bus just starving and wanted to eat right then. My Italian restaurant doesn't open for dinner until 6:00 pm and the girls assured us they would expire well before that. So yeah, it wasn't traditional but I guess at least it was a very American meal... burgers and fries.
No Macy's parade, no football games, no delicious cornbread dressing made by my mother or tasty pumpkin pies made by my mother-in-law. But then again... no crazed cleaning, last minute prep work and massive clean up. Maybe we're on to something here.
So how did we spend Thanksgiving? We got the girls off to school and then headed into London to St. Paul's Cathedral. Every year they have an 11:00 service of Thanksgiving for Americans in the London area. We had been told by another expat that we should take the girls out of school for it. However, I knew the younger one would be bored to tears while the older one would complain about having to make up the two tests scheduled for today in Spanish and environmental science.
It was a very nice service, with the American ambassador to England giving a little speech before the sermon that was led by a pastor from the American church in London. I knew the pastor was gonna do a good job at speechifying when he mentioned that southerners made some of the tastiest Thanksgiving birds since they deep fried them. That got a chuckle out of the crowd.
One thing I wasn't expecting this morning was the sight as we rounded the corner of the cathedral...
What a bunch of copycats. Barq's Root Beer and Velveeta Cheese can't jump the pond, but the Occupy movement can? There's definitely something wrong with that little scenario. The occupy folks didn't seem too busy today, though I don't think they really know what their role is at this time. I heard recently that some surveillance was done in the occupy zone using high tech heat detecting instruments and that only about 1/3 of the tents were occupied at night. I guess some of them got tired of sleeping on the hard ground in the cold and took their protesting selves home every evening for a good night's sleep. So quit your ranting and raving about corporate America, those same companies that make all of the niceties and conveniences which make your life very comfortable.
And what did we have for Thanksgiving dinner? Gourmet Burger Kitchen! The husband and I had contemplated a "nice" lunch in the city, but then I felt guilty about not including the girls and suggested we just get a snack and wait for them to get home from school. That way we could all sit down for a family meal at our favorite local Italian restaurant. My dreams of mushroom risotto and prosecco were squashed when my darling little varmints rolled off the bus just starving and wanted to eat right then. My Italian restaurant doesn't open for dinner until 6:00 pm and the girls assured us they would expire well before that. So yeah, it wasn't traditional but I guess at least it was a very American meal... burgers and fries.
No Macy's parade, no football games, no delicious cornbread dressing made by my mother or tasty pumpkin pies made by my mother-in-law. But then again... no crazed cleaning, last minute prep work and massive clean up. Maybe we're on to something here.
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
It's difficult to be calm and balanced when you're middle-aged
Read all about it... that oughta be our family motto. Lord knows we can't contemplate any sort of travel without consulting the appropriate Rick Steves book. Heaven forbid that we booked any accommodations without checking reviews on Trip Advisor. The planet would probably stop rotating on its axis if we purchased any sort of electronic device without first getting the scoop from Consumer Reports.
It's no different in regards to the process of selecting and raising a puppy. First we had to read a couple dog breed books and watch many episodes of Dogs 101. That narrowed down our selection quite a bit and we finally decided on the Cairn Terrier.
Never fear, Cesar is here! Cesar with his lovely Spanish accented English is gonna teach us a thing or two about raising Ollie to be a wonderful dog.
The day before we went to visit the breeder, I picked up a copy of this book and plowed through about 120 pages so I would know what to look for when selecting the right Cairn pup for us. Here's how the whole thing went down.
First off, we left the house for an almost two hour drive through some patchy fog to an area east of Cambridge. The breeder was a very nice lady and her adult daughter. They had quite the set-up and lots of Cairns to choose from. We started off by looking at some of the older ones. They seemed very sweet, but our youngest daughter had come along for the selection process and she really wanted something puppy vs teenager.
The breeder trotted in three pups who were 10 weeks old. They were a golden color and had the cliche tubby puppy bellies. All of them were males, roughly the same size and seemed to have similar temperaments - rearing up on the enclosure, yipping for attention and tumbling each other about when we ignored them in order to see what they would do. According to Cesar, you need to stand back and see what their reactions are. We were looking for a pup that didn't have to be center stage, that seemed calm in the face of excitement.
When the breeder saw that we were rather lackluster about these puppies, she then fetched another group of three that were only 8 weeks old. These were more a red foxy color. The obvious pick of the litter we referred to as "big boy" because you could tell he ruled the food dish. He reared up on the side of the enclosure to yap at us and demand attention. When that elicited no response from us, he then turned around to take away toys from his two siblings. He quickly became bored with that and returned to bark at us multiple times. Obviously he didn't have the calm submissive, medium level energy Cesar told us to look for when picking a pup.
The other two pups were more similar in nature. However, one was really good at entertaining himself. He was the runt of the litter, but very cute. He would find a toy and play with it until one of his brothers would wrestle him down and take it away. However, that didn't faze him and he would just find another toy and promptly start playing with it. He was very good at entertaining himself rather than bullying his littermates or yapping and rearing up to demand attention from the humans peering down on him.
The breeders did a good job of training the pups to remain calm when picked up, so it was nice to pick up our first choice and get a chance to see him up close. He remained still and didn't try to squirm away or lick us in the face. When we put him back in the enclosure, he did rear up on it once to see if we would pick him up. He waited about 15 seconds in silence and then got down to find a toy and get busy gnawing on it.
Cesar's book was very helpful and I feel like we did a good job selecting a puppy. I've been reading up on the next steps - crate training, creating a routine and housebreaking. The next couple months are gonna be really interesting around here. I just hope we're all up for the challenge of having a little one in the house.
It's no different in regards to the process of selecting and raising a puppy. First we had to read a couple dog breed books and watch many episodes of Dogs 101. That narrowed down our selection quite a bit and we finally decided on the Cairn Terrier.
Never fear, Cesar is here! Cesar with his lovely Spanish accented English is gonna teach us a thing or two about raising Ollie to be a wonderful dog.
The day before we went to visit the breeder, I picked up a copy of this book and plowed through about 120 pages so I would know what to look for when selecting the right Cairn pup for us. Here's how the whole thing went down.
First off, we left the house for an almost two hour drive through some patchy fog to an area east of Cambridge. The breeder was a very nice lady and her adult daughter. They had quite the set-up and lots of Cairns to choose from. We started off by looking at some of the older ones. They seemed very sweet, but our youngest daughter had come along for the selection process and she really wanted something puppy vs teenager.
The breeder trotted in three pups who were 10 weeks old. They were a golden color and had the cliche tubby puppy bellies. All of them were males, roughly the same size and seemed to have similar temperaments - rearing up on the enclosure, yipping for attention and tumbling each other about when we ignored them in order to see what they would do. According to Cesar, you need to stand back and see what their reactions are. We were looking for a pup that didn't have to be center stage, that seemed calm in the face of excitement.
When the breeder saw that we were rather lackluster about these puppies, she then fetched another group of three that were only 8 weeks old. These were more a red foxy color. The obvious pick of the litter we referred to as "big boy" because you could tell he ruled the food dish. He reared up on the side of the enclosure to yap at us and demand attention. When that elicited no response from us, he then turned around to take away toys from his two siblings. He quickly became bored with that and returned to bark at us multiple times. Obviously he didn't have the calm submissive, medium level energy Cesar told us to look for when picking a pup.
The other two pups were more similar in nature. However, one was really good at entertaining himself. He was the runt of the litter, but very cute. He would find a toy and play with it until one of his brothers would wrestle him down and take it away. However, that didn't faze him and he would just find another toy and promptly start playing with it. He was very good at entertaining himself rather than bullying his littermates or yapping and rearing up to demand attention from the humans peering down on him.
The breeders did a good job of training the pups to remain calm when picked up, so it was nice to pick up our first choice and get a chance to see him up close. He remained still and didn't try to squirm away or lick us in the face. When we put him back in the enclosure, he did rear up on it once to see if we would pick him up. He waited about 15 seconds in silence and then got down to find a toy and get busy gnawing on it.
Cesar's book was very helpful and I feel like we did a good job selecting a puppy. I've been reading up on the next steps - crate training, creating a routine and housebreaking. The next couple months are gonna be really interesting around here. I just hope we're all up for the challenge of having a little one in the house.
Monday, November 21, 2011
How much is that puppy on the breeder's website?
It's been a rollercoaster ride, folks. Exactly one week ago, we were all excited about the prospect of getting a precious little griffon pug cross. I messaged the puppy lady several times last Monday... she had one left and it would be available the first week in December. I emailed her one final time that we were very excited about the puppy joining our family and asked her to send me the address so I could drop a deposit in the mail.
Two days later, I get a new email from her saying she had just received my email from Monday. I may be from Texas, but I didn't fall off the turnip truck and bump my noggin. All I had to do was check my SENT box to make sure the email went out on Monday when she claimed she just received it on Wednesday. (insert some cursity cursing here - use your imagination and let 'er rip) Whatever... the bottom line was that she had promised the puppy to another family and she was waiting on their check. Of course, she was quick to let me know that if the other person's check didn't show up by Thursday, then we could buy the pup. As if I could believe that. Obviously we passed on her offer.
Since the spring, I've been snooping through animal websites on a regular basis. There was one kennel that caught my eye because the breeder includes in all her ads that she never turns her back on her dogs. She says that she is always available for advice and will gladly take any dogs that can no longer be kept for any reason and find a good home for them.
This lady has bred Cairn Terriers for 30+ years and really seems to know her stuff. She has many sets of breeding pairs and potential owners wouldn't have to wait months and months for a pup. I've returned to this breeder's website over and over again to admire the fine looking Cairns and wonder if it would be the right breed for our family.
In the past, I would never have attempted to raise a terrier. With our work schedules and kid commitments, the poor little thing would have had to live most of its life in a crate. No doubt it would have displayed all of the negative Cairn traits that would drive us nuts - jumping on folks, barking its fool head off, chasing anything that moved (including our cats), digging up our landscaping and trying to tunnel out of the backyard underneath the fence.
Now that I'm a (reluctant) stay-at-home mom here in the UK, I have plenty of time on my hands. Plenty of time to clean up poop and pee, plenty of time to let it drag me along while I try to train it on the lead, plenty of time to babysit it in the backyard so it doesn't make a break for it or bay like a hound at the local squirrels that frequent our trees.
We drove up north, not too far from Cambridge, to visit the breeder yesterday. She was busy grooming the Cairns, so we got to visit with her daughter. Honest to Betsy, you would have thought she was from Texas - the wilds of Hardin County - if she lost the accented English. She was mucking around in her wellies with the dogs following her out to the paddock, all very down-to-earth and without a snooty British bone in her body. She was extremely patient with our questions and brought out two different sets of puppies plus the parents for us to see.
We ended up choosing the little guy on the right in this picture. Thanks to my speed reading through Cesar Millan's How to Raise the Perfect Dog: Through Puppyhood and Beyond, we were armed with some valuable information about the puppy selection process. It seems that if you don't select the "right" pup for you, then you're gonna be neck deep in puppy poop from the get-go.
We decided the little fella needed to be called something quintessentially British, so Oliver Twist (and our surname) will be the official name on his pedigree papers. To us, he'll simply be Ollie.
Two days later, I get a new email from her saying she had just received my email from Monday. I may be from Texas, but I didn't fall off the turnip truck and bump my noggin. All I had to do was check my SENT box to make sure the email went out on Monday when she claimed she just received it on Wednesday. (insert some cursity cursing here - use your imagination and let 'er rip) Whatever... the bottom line was that she had promised the puppy to another family and she was waiting on their check. Of course, she was quick to let me know that if the other person's check didn't show up by Thursday, then we could buy the pup. As if I could believe that. Obviously we passed on her offer.
Since the spring, I've been snooping through animal websites on a regular basis. There was one kennel that caught my eye because the breeder includes in all her ads that she never turns her back on her dogs. She says that she is always available for advice and will gladly take any dogs that can no longer be kept for any reason and find a good home for them.
This lady has bred Cairn Terriers for 30+ years and really seems to know her stuff. She has many sets of breeding pairs and potential owners wouldn't have to wait months and months for a pup. I've returned to this breeder's website over and over again to admire the fine looking Cairns and wonder if it would be the right breed for our family.
In the past, I would never have attempted to raise a terrier. With our work schedules and kid commitments, the poor little thing would have had to live most of its life in a crate. No doubt it would have displayed all of the negative Cairn traits that would drive us nuts - jumping on folks, barking its fool head off, chasing anything that moved (including our cats), digging up our landscaping and trying to tunnel out of the backyard underneath the fence.
Now that I'm a (reluctant) stay-at-home mom here in the UK, I have plenty of time on my hands. Plenty of time to clean up poop and pee, plenty of time to let it drag me along while I try to train it on the lead, plenty of time to babysit it in the backyard so it doesn't make a break for it or bay like a hound at the local squirrels that frequent our trees.
We drove up north, not too far from Cambridge, to visit the breeder yesterday. She was busy grooming the Cairns, so we got to visit with her daughter. Honest to Betsy, you would have thought she was from Texas - the wilds of Hardin County - if she lost the accented English. She was mucking around in her wellies with the dogs following her out to the paddock, all very down-to-earth and without a snooty British bone in her body. She was extremely patient with our questions and brought out two different sets of puppies plus the parents for us to see.
We ended up choosing the little guy on the right in this picture. Thanks to my speed reading through Cesar Millan's How to Raise the Perfect Dog: Through Puppyhood and Beyond, we were armed with some valuable information about the puppy selection process. It seems that if you don't select the "right" pup for you, then you're gonna be neck deep in puppy poop from the get-go.
We decided the little fella needed to be called something quintessentially British, so Oliver Twist (and our surname) will be the official name on his pedigree papers. To us, he'll simply be Ollie.
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
And away they ran with it
You would think that at the age of 44 I would know better. And just because the girls are a mature 10 and 16, it doesn't guarantee they won't turn around and act like kindergarten kiddos when you factor in a cute puppy.
He is pretty darned cute, though not so precious that you would lose your 10 and 16 year old heads over him, right? At least I didn't do something REALLY stupid like decide to have another baby to fill my lonely days here at home. I'll take the occasional pile of puppy doo-doo over a couple years of diapers any day of the week!
Little Mr. Snicklebritches' dad is a brussels griffon and mom is a pug. Look at him and his brother all snuggled up, just 5 weeks old. Ours is the one in the front, that looks a bit more griffon than his brother, who looks more puggy.
These same girls who have been pestering me for a kitten ever so recently immediately changed teams and are firmly in the puppy camp as of yesterday afternoon. They shunned homework after supper so they could spend half an hour brainstorming dog names. Thus far they like Gizmo, Otto, Oscar, Henry, Jinx and Ollie. Contenders that got tossed out by me were Ewok, Quazzy, Rufus and Chewy... obviously inferior names.
If we want the pooch, we'll have to haul it up to Lancashire (about 200 miles to the northwest of where we live) to pick him up unless we can convince the owner to meet us somewhere in-between. He'll turn 8 weeks the first weekend in December, which coincides with the birthday of our youngest daughter. I can just envision the scene now, the youngest one claiming the pup as hers while the older one rants about how it's the family dog and someone else should get to hold it on the ride home and she can't be greedy just because it's her birthday, blah-blah-blah. Ah yes, the true and abiding bond between sisters.
Stay tuned - I'll keep you posted on puppy developments as they happen.
He is pretty darned cute, though not so precious that you would lose your 10 and 16 year old heads over him, right? At least I didn't do something REALLY stupid like decide to have another baby to fill my lonely days here at home. I'll take the occasional pile of puppy doo-doo over a couple years of diapers any day of the week!
Little Mr. Snicklebritches' dad is a brussels griffon and mom is a pug. Look at him and his brother all snuggled up, just 5 weeks old. Ours is the one in the front, that looks a bit more griffon than his brother, who looks more puggy.
These same girls who have been pestering me for a kitten ever so recently immediately changed teams and are firmly in the puppy camp as of yesterday afternoon. They shunned homework after supper so they could spend half an hour brainstorming dog names. Thus far they like Gizmo, Otto, Oscar, Henry, Jinx and Ollie. Contenders that got tossed out by me were Ewok, Quazzy, Rufus and Chewy... obviously inferior names.
If we want the pooch, we'll have to haul it up to Lancashire (about 200 miles to the northwest of where we live) to pick him up unless we can convince the owner to meet us somewhere in-between. He'll turn 8 weeks the first weekend in December, which coincides with the birthday of our youngest daughter. I can just envision the scene now, the youngest one claiming the pup as hers while the older one rants about how it's the family dog and someone else should get to hold it on the ride home and she can't be greedy just because it's her birthday, blah-blah-blah. Ah yes, the true and abiding bond between sisters.
Stay tuned - I'll keep you posted on puppy developments as they happen.
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