Introducing the newest member of the Gaskell clan:
The Fabulous Miss Zoë
We adopted her from the West Palm Humane Society two weeks ago. Her name is Zoë. (Yes, with the umlaut; the pretension of it suits her). I originally wanted to name her Farrah, but George overruled it. He also refused to consider Primrose, Madonna, Agatha, Harriet, Gertrude and Oprah Winfrey. That left us with Posy, which we discarded as being too fey, and Zoë. So Zoë it is.
We really should have named her Pea, as in Princess and the _____, as Zoë spent the first few nights in residence complaining loudly that her new bed was not plush enough for her liking, forcing one of us to stagger to her crate at two in the morning to stuff extra blankets in around her.
Sam was initially charmed by Zoë’s presence.
“We have TWO Lulu’s now!” he crowed.
And when I explained that she was lost from her home, so now we have to take care of her, he immediately grasped the gravity of situation.
“She is lost, just like Lumpy the Heffalump,” Sam said sadly. “It’s okay, Zoë, I’ll take care of you.”
But the glamour of being the new pug on the block has already begun to fade. Now Sam only pays attention to her when she’s naughty.
“Mama! She’s eating my goldfish!” he shrieks, whipping his snack bowl away from Zoë’s twitching nose.
Or he’ll take my hand, lead me to an offending pile, point at it and announce, “Zoë made a poo in my bedroom. I will not sleep next to that,” before turning on his heel and flouncing out of the room, leaving me behind to scrub at the carpet with Resolve and a wet rag, and marvel at how much of my life has been devoted to cleaning up other creature’s bodily waste.
Oh, well. At least she’s cute, right?
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