Puppy love

So, last September I was feeling the tiniest bit lonely, and I was also frequently bored at work. Which was a bad combination because the boredom at work led to me pretty much camping out at www.1-800-save-a-pet.org, where I would spend hours clicking on pictures of dogs and reading about their "special needs" and plotting how I would scoop them all up and take them home with me where we would frolick in the back yard together and then watch TV marathons of "The Dog Whisperer" in one big, furry, slobbery heap on the couch. Because if I had a houseful of puppies to come home to, it would surely be impossible to be lonely. There would be too much cuddlin' and wrasslin' and lickin' and general mayhem to even consider being lonely.

So one Saturday, I just happened to be in the general vicinity of my local Petco, where the pets go, and oh, huh, isn't that funny, they coincidentally happen to have pet adoptions at Petco on Saturdays. So I convinced Emily, who was with me, that maybe we should just poke our heads in, just to see what was going on, because they were just right there, the puppies and the kitties, just across the parking lot from Target, and what was the harm in just going in and saying hello to them? None! Of course, none.

Upon walking into the Petco, our voices shot up about 42 octaves because Ooooooooohhhhhh!!! The puppiiiiiiiiiies! They were soooooooo cuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuute!!!! And ohmygod look at the tiny tiny kitty! It only has THREE LEGS!!!! AGGGGGGhgggggghh! So we basically just died for about twenty minutes from cuteness and fuzziness overload.

And eventually we noticed the teeniest, most excited little guy who was hoppinghoppinghopping much higher than should be possible for a little tiny dog, Olympic-record-type hopping, and you could just see that he was thinking, "Pleaseohpleaseohplease come talk to me and be my verybestfriend! Look how high I can jump! Isn't it awesome! Huh!? Huhhuhhuh!!!?"

And so, wooed by the hopping, I went over to say hi and pick the little guy up, at which point he snuggled into my arms and asked me with his little doggie eyes to be his mommy. And the evil pet adoption people, seeing that I was weak, knowing that I was in puppy love at first snuggle, sensing my 1-800-save-a-pet addiction, ganged up on me to convince me that I needed to give this springy little wigglebutt a home. They even offered me a discount on the adoption fee -- I could pick up a new best friend for just 40 bucks. Bastards.

Except in reality there was very little arm-twisting, and it was not at all coincidental that I happened to show up at Petco, where the pets go, on a pet-adoption Saturday. I knew that the hours of online pet shopping had by this point rendered me completely powerless against a pair of little brown, pleading puppy eyes.

And that is how I came to adopt my little dog, whom I re-named Uncle Rico because I couldn't bear for him to go on living as "Tigger," his previous and totally lame moniker. Also, I had been contemplating getting a Beta fish a few months earlier and had settled on calling the fish Uncle Rico, because I thought the "Napoleon Dynamite" character of same name was fantastic. Then I decided having a fish was boring and stupid. I had been disappointed to not have something to call "Uncle Rico," though, because I thought it was an excellent name for a pet. So of course when I adopted my little guy, who was clearly a natural-born athlete, someone capable of throwing a football over them mountains, it was obvious that he must be known henceforth as Uncle Rico. If coach woulda put him in fourth quarter, they would've been state champs.

Of course now he has any number of nicknames: Rics, Ricmeister, Ric-a-lic, Turdbutt, Ric-o-la, Idiot Dog, Fatty, Rictastic, Piglet, Mister, Puppy, Nutball, Dumb Dog, Munchkin, Richard, Kitty, and Poopy McCrapsalot.

But even from day one, we were completely bonded. That first night, we took him to The Press for a celebratory beer, and my buddy Katie said that when I left to go to the bathroom, little Rics became distraught and kept looking for me until I came back to the table. AWW! After that day, I've been completely cured of my online pet shopping addiction.

Anyway, my whole point in telling that story was just so I could post some pictures of my adorable Uncle Rico. So here ya go.





Sleepy Rico in Em's lap





"You're going to want to make a right at the next intersection."





"Noooo, I love YOU more!"





Dude, Rico is magic. How did he DO that??





Snuggling is definitely what he does best.

Little Lewis Turns 21: Part I

So, I have this younger brother, Little Lewis. Except you probably wouldn't believe we were related unless you were presented with irrefutable DNA evidence and the sworn testimony of a forensics expert, because we are so, so, SO different. He basically is the embodiment of everything I stand against. Consider the following:

Little Lewis enjoys country music. Like, car radio pre-sets enjoys it.

Little Lewis owns "Cowboy Up" paraphernalia. In case you have never seen any Cowboy Up-related paraphernalia, I have given an example, below:

I'm sure I don't need to explain to you how hideous this crap is, as you are probably cringing in your seat and maybe throwing up a little bit in your mouth at this very second. When I found said Cowboy Up-related paraphernalia on Little Lewis' person, I sneered, "Oh my god, you are so 909." LL didn't know what being 909 meant, which was obviously further proof of his 909-ness.

Little Lewis is a fan of organized religion. A #1 fan. Like, if the Christian Community Church were a baseball team, Li'l Lewis would have season tickets behind home plate, hats, t-shirts, one of those giant foam fingers, penants, a coozie (inside of which would be some kind of non-alcoholic beverage, perhaps Yoohoo), and a ball signed by all the members of the Holy Trinity plus Dr. James Dobson, Billy Graham AND Pat Robertson.

Little Lewis is a republican. No, actually... he's a Republican, capital "R." Like, pro-war, pro-Bush, pro-clubbing baby seals -- the whole bit.

Now, I'm sure I don't have to tell you that the only thing worse than a Republican is a Born-Again Republican... but I'm telling you anyway. Ahem: the only thing worse than a Republican is a Born-Again Republican. Who is your brother. Because then you end up receiving a keychain from them for Christmas that has the following image on it:

And then when you smirk so flagrantly your mom can practically hear it, she will turn to you and say, "*SIGH* -- Jesus doesn't just save the USA, Becky." Except she probably won't call you Becky, because I'm betting that's not your name.

Anyway, those are just a few of the ways in which Little Lewis is SO not me, so the opposite of me, so completely and entirely the antithesis of me that I fail to understand how when we are in the same room we do not cancel each other out and just disappear off the face of the earth forever and ever, amen.

SO, I was filled with delight when Little Lewis' 21st birthday rolled around a couple weeks ago.... AND all his of-age friends were out of town... SO! I could finally get my claws into the little Puritan and show him how much fun Irish car bombs and lemon drops and red-headed sluts can be!! Hooray!

Of course, when he found out what I was planning, he said to me, (and I quote), "Ok, but I'm not going to do anything immoral." (WHAT!) But then he redeemed himself a moment later by saying, "Ok, but if I'm making out with someone you can't stop me." So maybe we really are related after all.

I rounded up some fellow sinners to take the kid out and show him how a 21st birthday is done. Our first stop was the IO West for a little improvisational humor and a lot of damn cheap beers. (It should be noted that when Little Lewis was telling me what he wanted to do for his big day, he said that he wanted to see a comedy show, and that it should be "clean." hUh?) (It should also be noted that I have been seriously missing out by not spending more time at the IO, as it is a) super cheap, with super cheap drinks ($2 PBRs!!) b) hilarious c) features a handful of F-list semi-celebrities and d) is TEEMING with hot dudes. Hot dudes who are FUNNY!)

Anyway, here are some pictures of us at the IO. You can tell which one Little Lewis is by his tongue, which appears to have a life independent from the rest of his self. And it is actually photographic evidence that the two of us are indeed related, because we both have the same horrifying spawn-of-satan eyes.

But in case you can't tell, it goes Emily (drunk eyes), Little Lewis (Lucifer eyes), Madeleine (ginormous baby-blue eyes), Me (pupils of fire), Marcy (four eyes).

Stay tuned for Part II, in which much bull-riding is done by all.