Everyone says the same thing about Finnigan.
"Goodness," they say. "Look at the paws. You know, he's going to be a big boy."
As if we weren't aware of this fact. As if Finn was the first Texas sized hound that Scott and I have ever owned. I mean, look at those things up there, those paws.
They are practically elephantine.
The oracles in the dog park must have assumed that he was a rescue of questionable lineage. He wasn't. We paid $250 for him -- a steal in my view. We got to see his mother. We got a description of the perp who impregnated her.
So we have a pretty good idea about how he's going to act and what he's going to look like.
Now before you all get all uppity about us buying a pup instead of finding one at a shelter, let's make one thing clear. We tried to rescue a puppy, but all they had were angry or incontinent old dogs. I didn't want a dog who had been whipped by his owner. I had one of those. He nearly took the leg off a jogger, and he ripped the coat off the Sears guy who came to repair the snowblower. I had to put him down for his anger issues.
As for the old guys, they aren't my problem. We already dispatched an old, wheezy dog who was on the verge of incontinence. We didn't take him to the shelter to give someone else the problem.
Besides, we still have Gordie, who pees everywhere.
Nope. We wanted the latest model with the new puppy smell.
And that's what we got. Twenty pounds of wet fur attached to an over-active penis and a pair of nippy jaws.
So if you see me on the street, don't ask if he's a rescue and don't bother with the predictions of size, shape or demeanor.
We're covered.
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