I'm growing up.

Yes, after 26 years (very nearly), I have found a reason to embrace responsibility. I get up early. I make my lunch for work. I've been going on walks, doing my dishes, and this is the longest my room has been clean since my mom gave up cleaning for me when I was six. I'm getting my homework done on time...actually, the procrastinator in me is still going strong. But overall, I have changed.

And what brought on this change, you might ask? Did my stirring blog from a couple weeks back have that large of an impact on my lifestyle? Did my doctor tell me I only have a few months to live? Or am I on medication that has whipped me into shape? Nope. None of the above...I got a dog.

For the first time in my life, someone is completely depending on me (sorry David, but you are way more independent than this pooch). He needs me to wake up and walk him so he doesn't pee on himself. He needs me to keep him from barking at the strange noises coming from the speaker. He needs me to keep him from soiling a shoe and chewing my dirty socks. I have an important job.

Everyone, meet Oscar:



How could you resist giving this guy what he deserves? His original owner was a crack addict man named Monica, who brought Oscar (then named Tokyo, bleh) and two other dogs stuffed in a duffel bag to the shelter. Oscar had mange, and now is afraid of anything bigger and louder than him. Except me, that is. This guy follows me from room to room, he sits by me every chance he gets, and he cries like someone sat on his tail every time I try to leave the house. Very cute. Very time consuming. Very different from what I expected.

I'll keep Oscar around. He's already learning so much. I have him in a secret competition with my brother's dog, who is also quite a looker. So far my dog has a better name, and is apparently smarter. By the time the two meet, my dog will be a perfect gentleman and try to make nice. His dog will jump on my dog and try to tug his ears. Oh well, it's how doggies play.

On a final note, I'm running out of plastic grocery bags--you know, for the poo. If any one is reading this and is in town, I'd be happy to take them off your hands. Sheesh, I'm in too deep (not in poo, in puppy love!).