Page 136 of A Dead End Wedding

"No, the book says you have to sleep in your crate, I think," I said firmly.

She whined again.

I shook my head. "No, Daisy. Go to sleep."

She howled.

I let her out.

Really, what do those book people know, anyway?

The alarm clock sounded, but I ignored it. Instead, I smiled and burrowed deeper in the covers as Jake nibbled on my ear.

Then he sneezed on my neck.

My eyes flew open. Dream-Jake evaporated, and a small, furry face grinned at me from the top of my pillow. "Euww! Definitely no dog butt on my pillow. Move over, you annoying hound." I used my firmest voice which, since Daisy doesn't understand Human, apparently translated into Dog as climb on my neck and lick my face.

So she did.

Luckily for puppies, they're irresistibly cute. Otherwise, the incessant snoring and the pillow thing might lead to unfortunate results. "Do you have to go outside and pee on something, Daisy? That's right, you're Daisy."

She seemed to be getting used to her name, because she wiggled and wagged even more when I said it. I put her on the floor before all that wiggling led to peeing on my bed, and then I pulled on a pair of shorts to go with the t-shirt I'd slept in and headed for the back door.

At the last minute, I remembered the leash and collar, since the backyard wasn't fenced. "Add a fence to the list of urgent things to do the second I have any money," I mumbled, as I fastened the ridiculous jeweled collar around her neck. Daisy tilted her head, as if to ask why my morning breath was even worse than hers. I scratched her silky ears for a moment, then led her outside.

Ten minutes later, she was still standing two inches from my right leg and obstinately refusing to do her doggy thing. "Look, you. I know you have to pee. You're a puppy. You drank all that water, you slept all night and snored like a freight train – and thank you very much, by the way, for the bags under my eyes – and now you have to pee. So, do it already."

Emily's back door swung open, and Rick ambled out, already dressed for work. "Hey, December. Hey, Daisy," he called.

Daisy, a fickle creature, nearly choked herself, lunging on the end of the leash to get to him. "Whoa, wait up before you hurt yourself," I told Daisy, but I started over to talk to Rick. He'd read the doggy owner manual, after all.

Rick met us halfway, and bent down to pet Daisy, who threw herself in his lap. "She's probably trying to get away from me," I said. "I make her constipated, apparently."

He laughed. "Walk around with her to get her motor started, I think."

We both looked down. Sure enough, Daisy was squatting perilously near my left foot, finally peeing. Then she walked around me twice, until I was tangled in the leash, and contorted her body into a bizarre hunching shape.

"What the heck is she doing? Is she sick? She looks like she's in pain!" I said, freaking out. If I killed the new puppy on the first day, Max would never trust me again. Plus, okay, I had to admit that she was kind of growing on me.

Except, this new thing was . . . "Oh, that's disgusting!" She was pushing a huge trail of poop out of her bottom, but it was oddly connected and wouldn't fall down. "What IS that?" I asked Rick, trying not to gag.

He bent over and looked. "It looks like she swallowed a hair," he said calmly, then straightened back up and looked at me. "Haven't you ever had a dog, December?"

I bit my lip. "Of course. Well, only actually for one day, because my dad found out and had a fit. Then we had to give it back. I've never stood around before and watched one poop, that's for sure."

I snuck a glance down again. Everything seemed like it . . . came out . . . fine. "Now what?"

Rick was trying not to roll his eyes. I could tell. "Now you pick it up so it's not lying in the yard attracting flies or the shoes of little children."

"I PICK IT UP?"

"Use your quiet voice, December," he said, laughing. "I'm right here. Remember that fire hydrant thing? See it on the leash? You unroll a plastic bag and turn it inside out with your hand and do this." He showed a "pick up the poop with your bare hand only minimally covered with a thin plastic bag," trick, and then he pulled his hand out and tied the bag shut and held it out to me.

I blinked. "Can you hire people to do this? I'm practically broke, but I'm sure I can give up eating or something to afford a designated poop-picker-upper." He shook his head, still holding the bag o'poop out to me, and I had no choice but to take it.

As I walked back to my house, leash in one hand and poop – held as far away from me as possible — in the other, I wondered which part of the snoring/eating/pooping routine made dogs man's best friend?

Oh, wait.Man'sbest friend. If dogs werewomen'sbest friend, they'd be more into shoe shopping.

---