When Chad and I first moved in together, he decided to get a dog.
Now...remember...I'm from a family of animal lovers. I grew up with pets that ran the gamut from your run of the mill hound dogs, cats, rabbits, chickens and pigs all the way to the more unusual raccoon and opossum. My family takes pet ownership very seriously. A pet is a member of the family and a big responsibility. I didn't feel up to taking on that sort of responsibility for anything bigger than a dwarf hamster.
(Poopsie - RIP)
So, when Chad started talking dogs, I got more nervous than when he started talking rings.
"Dogs are a lot of work," I hedged.
"You have to clean up their messes. We'll have to find a dog sitter whenever we leave town."
"I'm not sure if I'm up to this level yet."
"You'll be fine," he insisted. Then, "I want an English Bulldog."
"An English Bulldog."
"Okay. Here's the deal. I'm absolutely against buying a dog from a breeder or pet store. There are so many shelter animals that need homes. If you can find a bulldog at the shelter, I'll sign off on becoming a pet mommy."
And Chad being Chad...well...these things always seem to work out for him. Three months before our wedding, he emailed me a picture of a dog that was more skin and bones than anything else. An American Bulldog, she stood taller and slimmer than her British counterpart. She had no name, was dog aggressive and had been abused. The shelter warned us that she was skittish and even though they estimated her age at a year, she'd already been used to breed puppies. Chad and I spent a couple hours with her and fell in love. We named her Margarita - Maggie for short - and brought her home. After a rough couple of weeks where she was so afraid of Chad that she wouldn't even go near him, we settled into life as a family of three.
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