If there’s one drawback to my new job, it’s that I don’t get to spend quality time fondling my blog. I have a hundred and one things to say and no time to say it. Podcast-blogging (podblogging? p-logging? plogging?) is beginning to look more attractive every day.
There has been a puppy explosion at work. It’s a dog friendly office so on any given day you’ll find yourself tripping over leashes and chew toys if you’re not careful, and the candy dishes on everyone’s desks hold tiny Milk-Bones instead of Hershey’s Kisses (I got the munchies once and…oh, never mind).
About four weeks ago, one gal went and bought herself a Great Dane puppy that looks suspiciously like Rocco. She brings Clyde in all the time and I get wistful thinking about how my dog must have looked at that age, all cuteness and feet (Rocco is two years old, all stupid and feet).
A couple weeks later another girl bought a little pug puppy. Sadie has all the grace of a "Skating With the Stars" reject so she constantly falls over her own shadow. And, yes, she is adorable.
Yesterday, another co-worker brought in her new pug puppy (we are a very unoriginal group). Dog-With-No-Name is around six weeks old and only about this big: [ ]. She’s the cutest thing. Ever.
All of this, however, has not left me with the raging need to get another dog, especially since Rocco fills my life with such excessive joy. I mean, really, his existence is so fulfilling. He thoughtfully bounds out of the house and down the street whenever I open the door. As a result, I can only open the door a fraction and scrape myself through the tiny opening, snagging hair and clothing along the way (mine, not his). Sometimes I find it easier to just squeeze myself through the mail slot.
Rocco kindly raids the garbage can for me at every opportunity. He knows I enjoy stumbling into the kitchen at 5 a.m. and stepping on the remains of last nights pork chops and potatoes. And there’s nothing like having leftover coffee grounds squish through your toes. Really. Try it sometime.
My life would be incomplete if Rocco wasn’t always sailing through the air like a pole vaulter to land on the couch next to me every time I sit down. 120 pounds of canine on the fly is truly a sight to behold, especially when it’s coming right at your trachea.
And then there’s the entertainment of watching the dog try to mess with my cat’s head. Though my itty-bitty kitty is completely unmoved by Rocco’s presence, my other, larger cat freaks right out if he comes within 200 yards of her. She tends to hang out on a kitchen chair a lot (watching the garbage can, I suppose) and Rocco will trot through the room looking for…I don’t know…whatever it is brain-damaged dogs look for. A new $200 handbag to chew, perhaps (not that it’s ever, um, happened)? Anyway, he’ll lumber through the kitchen and Scooter will instantly lose her mind. She puffs up, her tail gets huge and she starts growling and hissing. The amount of spitting she does to make him go away would make a Copenhagen-chewing redneck proud. Rocco, of course, remains completely oblivious. As Scooter strains her vocal cords wailing at him, he just stands there with his head cocked to one side as if to say," Do I hear something? Are there chicken bones rustling in the trash?" On the other hand, Scooter weighs about one pound, six ounces soaking wet so I guess I wouldn’t be too scared of her either.
So can you see why all the sudden puppy-love hasn’t moved me to get another dog? Who else could bring such joy fun amusement large amounts of pet hair to my life?
Posted by Lisa Hoover 
