This morning, I was woken up to hear my overly rambunctious pup tearing something up, yet again. Today, it was my ornament off the Christmas tree, and now there's glitter all over the couch and in his freshly washed coat, which I in fact had to wrestle him to wash last night.
I rescued Albert from the shelter almost two months ago, and it was love at first sight. He pawed at me through the cage, and his name almost being exactly just like mine, I knew it was a perfect match. He was so happy and quiet and such a good little dog. Little did I know, he was going to be an absolute terror. Getting him was on a whim and in the midst of a somewhat mental breakdown I was having due to college, boys, and about a million other things.
Albert is about 7 months old now, so he's the equivalent to the terrible twos that parents go through with real children. In the short, but very long, two months I've had him he's eaten two phone chargers, my laptop charger, my only pair of flip flops, my sneakers, my slippers, one of my two comforters, amongst other things like my homework, — yes, dogs really do eat your homework — books, and even my shower loofa.
My favorite time of the day is when my roommates and I are cooking or eating. He does this really cute thing where he runs around the house and barks, and barks, and barks to point where my neighbors are banging on the walls as he does laps around our very tiny apartment. It's actually not cute at all and I've learned to take an ibuprofen before I even go near the kitchen to avoid the headache that is inevitably about to happen. Now with the Christmas tree, he runs circles underneath it not understanding how big of a dog he is. Needless to say, every branch on the bottom is now broken and the ornaments stop about halfway down the tree.
Even though he is a complete monster 75 percent of the time, he can be so incredibly cute and cuddly. Most of the time he's sleepy, and when he sleeps, he sleeps hard. He snores like an old man whose worked all day, and cuddles not only me but everyone in the house, better than any boyfriend could. When I don't feel good or I'm just tired, he'll come lay right next to me leaving me with no choice but to practically spoon him. When I cry — not that this happens a lot, because I am in fact a tough bitch — but he comes right up and sits in my lap and licks my face, and really how do you keep crying after that? As much as I dread cooking in front of him, my favorite part of the day is when I come home from class or being out, and let him out of his crate because he gets so excited and really, I'm probably just as excited.
As much of a handful he is, rescuing him was the best decision I think I could have made. Now, I have an alarm to make sure my ass gets up bright and early for class, something that loves me unconditionally no matter what, and puts a smile on my face even when he's being a complete psycho. When it comes down to it, I think my rescue dog rescued me.
