Our furry baby, Ginger Lily, is celebrating her birthday today- she’s 2 years old. She doesn’t realize this, but then again she doesn’t realize much…ever. Lily’s not the smartest pup on the block, she’s full of wrinkles, snores like a freight train, displays zero social graces, fails to comprehend the value of personal space, but she’s made her mark on our family (in many locations actually), and she is well and truly part of the Thomas tribe!
After the final year of blindness, deafness, senility and incontinence with our previous dog, a little fluff ball named Figaro, I declared our family DONE with dogs. After I’d put in my 14 years (I had been tricked into buying a puppy while pregnant and insatiably maternal), we totally renovated our home, and finally we were dog free.
And then I needed a puppy. Badly. Like, talking-to myself-when-the-kids-went-to-school badly. It was weird. I was weird. I missed the fluff at my feet, someone greeting me when I came home, someone completely non-judgmental I could vent on and sing to. And love.
So we bought an English Bulldog.
And life hasn’t been the same since Lily arrived…
Neither has our newly renovated home.
But that’s okay.
Her quirky personality fits right in. A hefty fifty pounds of pure comedy keeps me laughing (or crying when I see her latest chewed victim), her need of constant cuddles makes me feel loved ALL the time (whether I want to or not), her ferocious bark at the front door is my protection (until she rolls over for tummy tickles), and best of all, she’s my writing companion.
She lies on my feet, listens to me read aloud, and grunts her approval in all the right places.
We love our Lily. Happy Birthday, Princess Pooch!