Feeling: amused
Listening to: Matchbox Twenty - Kody
Reading/Watching: Music Education in the Twentieth Century (oh, it's a hoot)

If my dog could talk, I'm sure I already know the things she would say.

She's about 8 months old now, sort of like a preteen in dog years, and I swear, there are times she tosses her head (she's a natural platinum-blonde) and says "liekomg, NO ONE gets me, and it's so unfair."

This morning, I woke up, and sat down to do my homework (I originally asked for two days off from work for classes, but managed to put them all on Tuesday, which means I only have to do the 50-mile drive once a week. Rather than work that other day, I save it for doing my assignments). I knew for a fact that the puppy has been fed, given water, and walked around the complex so she can empty her various... materials. But all the same, while I'm reading my textbook, she's wandering around the room, making a constant, quiet, grunting sort of whimper, as if something is hurting her.

So I marked my place in the book, walked over to her, looked for bumps or bruises or cuts, inflamed bug bites, raw patches from her collar, felt her joints and muscles for sore spots, and basically snuggled and comforted her while she nuzzled my face. And she was fine.

But as soon as I started studying again, the grunting whine returned. I realized she was miffed at being ignored when she is so eminently adorable, so she was Pouting in protest.

Then, I finished early, and decided to do a thing most women dream about, but few have time to do: take a long hot bubble-bath with a good book, a glass of good wine, and (in my case) a tin of dark-chocolate-covered almonds.

It was marvelous. I soaked in my "deep-moisturizing" bubbles, sipped chilled white wine, and read the last of Baby Proof, by Emily Giffin. Every once in a while, I'd reach into the tin of chocolate almonds and put one in my mouth to melt slowly (I eat everything in layers, especially those Ferrero Rocher candies).

Suddenly, the canister tipped into the bathtub. I jostled to try to catch it, but it was already half-full of soapy water, with one rogue almond floating down toward the faucet, melting in the hot bath and shedding as it went.

I wondered how on earth I managed to bump them into the tub (as opposed to off the ledge onto the floor), but then I saw Allegra's nose poked just above the level of the bathtub wall, her eyes seemingly innocent.

I growled and went fishing after the melting almond in the bath, adding it to the soapy chocolate soup in the canister, and thought that at least I couldn't have more than a standard serving now. My puppy was merely helping me stick to my diet plan.

I could practically hear her say, "You don't need more of those. Let's go for a good long walk, instead." (like those annoying friends who are overly devoted to keeping you skinny)

So I said aloud "All right, fine, punkass," and reached to pet her head, but she darted out of the reach of my dripping-wet hand (I think, like most curly-haired girls, she doesn't like how the humidity makes her frizz).

When I got out of the tub (and threw the almonds away), she was sprawled upside-down in the middle of my bed, as if to say, "See? How can you stay mad at me when I'm so cute?"

People say your first dog is a bit like your first child: cute and self-absorbed, spring-loaded and eager, but demanding constant attention. In which case, I am fully prepared for my first toddler. Although I hope my kid doesn't chew the vertical blinds or dive into the trash for used kleenex to shred all over the floor.

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