Yes. Savannah Jane is two, today. How time flies. As you know, she is totally my heart, and if you are not a dog person, then WHAT ARE YOU DOING reading MY blog?? There is a peace that comes with embracing my crazy-dog-lady status, and sharing a life with Savannah Jane is a happy happy happy thing.
She is never in a bad mood, she’s always glad to see me, she potties outside (almost all the time…) and she is just an all-around Very. Good. Girl. I bless the day that my BFF Famous brought her to me and slung gravel getting out of the driveway over my protests.
When Sweet Husband and I met and subsequently married, he was a dyed-in-the-wool “no dogs in the house, and CERTAINLY no dogs in my bed!” sort of guy. He is kind and soft hearted, and he wants me to be happy – which is totally in his best interest, after all – so he warmed right up to having a furry companion in the house. Duchie, you may remember, was a puppy mill mommy rescue, and sadly she never really learned to play with toys. She was never in the best of health, but my GOD I loved that dog. For twelve long years, which coincidentally was double the amount of time she spent as a mill dog.
Long before The Duchess died, Sweet Husband realized that another small furry friend was in his future. He tried to get me to “shop” other breeds, because he wanted me to get a dog that would “run and rip and snort and bite and fight and squeak a toy and love living life.”
Enter Savannah Jane. This dog is so full of life and joy and energy that it’s a wonder the excess doesn’t ooze out her floppy, velvety ears! She tends to expend a great deal of her energy playing with her toys, and she doesn’t cull many. She loves a NylaBone or anything hard to chew on, but her favorite toys seem to be the stuffed ones with squeakers inside.
Nothing brings her more joy than getting the stuffing and squeakers from the inside to the outside, and there are times that I think she is keeping time to beat her own personal de-stuffing land-speed record.
Sweet Husband tends to fuss and gripe when he trips over one or five of the many, many toys that litter the floor in our bedroom, and he tends to fuss loudly when he steps on one of the hard chew-bones that has been sharpened to a razor point by her busy little teeth. Of course, this usually happens in the dead of night at 0’dark thirty when he’s getting up for a drink of water or a restroom run, or when he rolls out at 6 bells and is a bit bleary-eyed, so I can’t say I blame him.
Despite his token protests, I have to say that I overhear him talking baby talk to her, referring to himself as “daddy,” and playing her favorite game, “Bitin and Fightin” with him on a regular basis. I’m not the only heart this little girl has wriggled into, nor the only person who is securely wrapped around that little paw.
I felt it imperative to post a big “Happy Birthday, Baby!” to my blog. Because she truly is a Darlin’ Doggie.