It's Me, Sara Louise

This very same weekend a year ago, The Husband and I set out to buy a Christmas tree and decorations. Somehow we found ourselves at the animal rescue center instead. 

Of course the rest is history. 

In honor of one year with Fifty, I’m re-posting the very first post I wrote about my furry little angel, when I was still oblivious to the amount of work that goes into raising a puppy. Before I became obsessive about vacuuming, thanks to his ever shedding fur. Before I knew the joys of coming home to a mangled appliance or de-stuffed cushion, or disemboweled stuffed animal. Before I began to question my sanity, because what type of crazy person gets a puppy in the beginning of December? Housebreaking a puppy in the dead of winter… poppycock!

It really was a lovely, innocent time.

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Something happened on our way to pick out a Christmas Tree…

…we picked up this little guy instead.

His name is Fifty, he’s three months old, and he snores. Loudly.

And if you don’t take him for a walk IMMEDIATELY after drinking water, he piddles.

And he likes to chew fingers.

But he’s adorable and gives sweet sweet kisses so all that piddling and finger chewing is quickly forgiven.