Anyway. Today, November 19, 2011, is the day we attempted to get my poor dog knocked up. I wasn’t there for it, but I’m told there was all kinds of weird stuff going on in the room: parts were massaged, positions were tried, things were injected into places.

And honestly, I feel like a sell-out. I worked at a humane society a long time back — I know how hard it is to get dogs adopted out. I know how much it sucks to see animals die because people are jerks. And I guess I’m one of the jerks bringing more unnecessary dogs into the world.

Except.

Except — ugh. I really want there to be an except, so I’ll make one: Except the dogs I’m responsible for bringing into the world won’t be unloved or unwanted. They’ll go to homes that are well vetted (by me, personally); they’ll be taken by people who can afford to pay not only for the dogs, but for the sometimes expensive care that ownership entails.

Except.

The people who buy these dogs wouldn’t be going to a humane society, anyway.

Except.

I love this breed: I love their energy, enthusiasm, curiosity, their contentment and love and slobbers and wrinkles. I love the way they breathe and snort and run out of energy at inopportune times and you have to carry them halfway down Tomer Butte and another mile up to your house, all fifty pounds of him, his slobbery mug resting on your shoulder. That’s a bulldog. They’re funny and loving, great with kids, not territorial, they don’t bark, they don’t bite, they don’t need long walks every day (though that’s fine, too); they just want love. And did I mention the wrinkles and cuddles and exuberance.

So, there. There’s my rationale. It’s flimsy and it sucks, and yes, part of why I’m doing this is for profit. And to pay the expenses of breeding and potential C-section, and to ensure the dogs go to homes that can afford them. But really, I love this kind of dog. And I love my Lucy, and Julius and Cleo before her, and Theo before them, and Angus before him. I’ve loved these dogs all my life and I hope that maybe other people can get that experience, too.

Too bad I have no problem taking care of these piles by putting them back exactly where he found them.

(In marriage counseling, this blog post will be logged into evidence as Exhibit 1.)

And in other marriage-related news, Lucy has literally gone off to a nice farm in the country to spend Thanksgiving: she’s staying with my parents on their acreage for a few weeks, and if she gets lucky, there will be an arranged conjugal visit with a local bulldog stud. If she’s not lucky, one of the neighbor’s miniature donkeys will take a shine to her and we’ll end up with a litter of bullonkeys.

1 a.m.: Awake. Get up to use bathroom.

2 a.m.: Awake.

3 a.m.: Awake. Dog is shaking her collar. Hope that she doesn’t need to go out, because it’s effing cold in the house.

3:30 a.m.: Dog is whining. Get up, locate bathrobe, think unkind thoughts about roasting a bulldog instead of a turkey for Thanksgiving.

3:32 a.m.: DOG WON’T LEAVE THE FUCKING PORCH. I know it’s like two degrees Fahrenheit out there, but for fuck’s sake.

3:34 a.m.: Dog has left fucking porch after I threatened her with broom to bottom.

3:38 a.m.: DOG WON’T COME BACK IN THE HOUSE. Decide to water and potty self while waiting.

3:40 a.m.: Dog wants to play instead of go back to bed. Effing dog is stuffed into effing crate without effing treat.

3:45 a.m.: WIDE EFFING AWAKE.

3:46 – 4:30 a.m.: Internet.

4:30 a.m.: Wide awake. Bathroom, again. Back to bed. House is bloody freezing and got two degrees colder while letting dog in and out.

5 a.m.: Sleep, finally.

6:15 a.m.: Husband’s alarm goes off. Consider roasting him for Thanksgiving in addition to dog and turkey.

6:50: Husband is waiting for car to finish defrosting and comes inside. Following conversation ensues:

me: The furnace didn’t come on last night. The heat pump ran all night instead and it hasn’t warmed up.

him: Furnace?

me: THE. FURNACE. Downstairs. That big thing next to the hot water heater?

him: It didn’t come on?

me, the one who slept for maybe an hour and a half: YES.

him, the one with a full night’s sleep: Huh.

him: (goes and checks temperature): It’s 55 degrees.

me: I KNOW.

him: It’s set for 59.

me: I KNOW.

him: So…the furnace didn’t come on?

6:52 a.m.: Husband leaves for work. Finds Trollop on porch and brings her in to bed with me, possibly because she is crying on the porch even though she has a heated bed, but probably in retaliation for my explanation of where he could stick the effing furnace.

6:53 – 6:55 a.m.: Pet Trollop. Wish she were always this sweet.

6:56 a.m.: Bitten by Trollop.

7 – 7:15 a.m.: Trollop bathes. Contemplate dinner of roasted turkey, bulldog, husband, and cat, but probably protein overload.

7:16 a.m.: Trollop jumps off bed; I levitate from bed (what enormous belly?) in time to grab her before she pees on anything and stuff her outside. Free Lucy from crate; dog heads straight for back door. Let her out; she stands on porch looking in, all like “This isn’t what I wanted; do you KNOW how cold it is? Lemme back in and I’ll pee on the nice warm floor.”

7:18 a.m.: Stomp outside and start to yell, “GO POTTY!” but words are frozen in my throat and can’t catch breath. Somehow, through skull of concrete, dog gets message and pees three inches away from porch, then streaks back up and inside.

7:20 a.m.: Breakfast for both of us.

7:30 a.m.: Dog comes over and slimes couch with food-encrusted drool.

7:31 a.m.: Dog back in crate. Me back in bed.

Let me briefly recap what happened between my last post and now: My sister-in-law had her baby (as did my sister-in-law’s sister-in-law), and then BAM! Every woman in the world announced she was pregnant. Except me. And Lucy.

Speaking of babies, the big news is that (1) I have a new niece! And sorry, world, but my nieces are pretty much the cutest nieces of all the nieces. Although those Grable progeny are looking alright. Also, (2) I have full-time work lined up next quarter, and (3) I’m keeping busy with freelance jobs this quarter. So I’m making at least enough dollars to buy dog food, which fuels our local poop factory.

And now, having been working on freelance jobs, lesson planning, teaching, and more freelancing all day, I’m going to bedfordshire.