Dogs rock. I don't own any, but I live with 3. They're the funniest dogs - mostly because they are all significantly not similar. The lab is black and HUGE - he just weighed in last week at 92 (NINETY! TWO!) pounds - and for those who are interested in my Bridget Jonesing, that's only 28 pounds lighter than me.
The other two are much smaller - one is 25 pounds, or thereabouts, and the other, 8 pounds. That One, the eight pounder, loves me. She's a little min pin, and as I was once a person who called dogs under 50 pounds "kick dogs," the fact that I enjoy her so thoroughly is a feat of gargantuan proportions.
The other is a Boston. A licky Boston. It is scientifically impossible to have a run-in with this dog without her DNA being in at least 7 places on your body, beyond the 4,583 places she tried to lick you and failed because you RAN. THE. OTHER. WAY.
The best part of my nights are returning to my basement dwelling from wherever I was during the day. 90% of the time, I come home far after my "landlords" have gone to bed, and the dogs sleep in their room. It's gotten cold recently, and the two mile trek from where I usually am to where my bed currently resides has become longer. Or maybe not long enough, cause my little ricer's heater doesn't warm up until the last two blocks.
But each night, when I come home, the Huge Lab is there, at the garage door, greeting me with those sweet sad eyes, making sure I'm ok. And though I'm not family, he looks as if to say, "I knew you were gone, and all is right, now that you're here."
Man and Basement-dweller's best, loyal friend.
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