Night of the Living Dog

In a recent bid to act like a real, functioning adult, I decided to co-adopt a dog with my boyfriend. I am completely and utterly serious when I tell you that we both thought this was a fabulous idea, in spite of the fact that we do not live together, and therefore that my responsibilities as a co-owner would necessitate my living out of a bag at the boyfriend’s apartment for an indeterminate amount of time and only going home once a week to get clean underwear. The conversation went something like this:

Me: Are you 100% sure about this?

Him: Yeah, are you?

Me: Yes! This is going to be fabulous! Underwear is , like, SO overrated.

I know what you’re thinking, but no, I do not have regrets. I am still… well, 95% sure that this was a fabulous idea. The other, fabulous 5% has been co-opted by sleep deprivation, and also by the sudden exposure to the intricacies of Daily Life With a Man that accompany this sort of pseudo-co-habitation (faux-habitation?). And when I say “intricacies”, I pretty much mean "nose hair".

But, nose hair aside, life is fun and filled with the joys that only dog ownership can bring. Especially when THIS is the dog:

Awwwww, right? Admit it, you said “awwww”.

However, there is one problem that keeps needling at me— in the past 3 weeks, the dog has pretty much doubled in size. And though I know that he cannot logically continue to grow at this pace, it hasn’t stopped me from having nightmares that look something like this:

No, it won't happen. But in the meantime, I'm really missing my usual dreams. Especially the one where my building is on fire, and the entire NYFD Calendar crew shows up to put out the blaze, and none of them are wearing pants.