I've only owned one dog in my life. Just one. We were more cat folks growing up. But when I left my dorm of 45 women to live in a house with one man, I got a little freaked out. So my Hubs took me to the Animal Shelter and we picked out a puppy.
Buford was super sweet. He was so tiny, calm and sweet. And full of worms. Which caused the calmness and the sweetness. Once dewormed he was like a dog who ate meth dog bones every five minutes.
He liked to play with a Tigger puppet I had and if we said "Buford, get your toy!!" he would rush over to Tigger and place it on his muzzle and run around in his high-on-dog-meth way. I know, so cute.
But you know what isn't cute? Dog farts. Yep, dog gas is pretty horrible. With that I give you:
My thanks to Insanity Kim, who feels I'm worth the stench. *choked up* It could be because she carries Pocket Febreze. Or has no sense of smell. Either way, I am humbled and honored and yada yada yada.
I freely bestow this highly honored award and pay homage to these fine people:
Insanity Kim: ditto, my friend, *whispers* ditto.
WendiWinn: because of her, I own the much talked about Febreze.
Speaking from the Crib: because she's full of the awesome.
Jenny on the Spot: because she uses colloquials and makes me pump my fist in the air in victory.
The Creative Junkie: because she talked about boob sweat and I felt a kinship.
So take this award, my fine friends, and let us clasp hands in friendship despite the horrible, gaseous, eye watering, stench of the digestively challenged canines.
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