It’s official. I am in love. Nyla and I have made it over the preliminary hurdle of post-adoption angst, regret and mustardy diarrhea. Okay the diarrhea cleared up a while ago.
I’ve become one of those (hopefully) harmless weirdos who baby-talks in an insufferably high-pitched squeal to her dog, out loud, in public (as if I didn’t embarrass the children enough). To the tune of, “Who makes the very best poopy-doopy?” And, “Who’s the cutie-wootiest doggiest-woggiest?” And, when I unleash her after a walk at the foot of the driveway and she bounds toward the backyard like a greyhound-pomeranian mix, “Who runs like the wind?” And later, she licks my face, making sure like a doggie in the frenzied throes of OCD, to try and reach my brain through my left nostril. Repeatedly. (She’s almost there.)
