Eight is enough.

J's therapist asked him if he loves his puppy.

J frowned, stroked his chin. He edged forward in his chair and coughed uncomfortably.

'Well, I don't know. It's hard to say whether or not I feel love for anything when I simply can't feel'

So. This is the inane, melodramatic sentence that got the ball rolling. Tony and the slightly queasy feeling in my gut are both telling me that I am the soon-to-be coerced surrogate mother of an eight-week-old miniature daschund. Which is absolutely lovely. I can't wait until we have two dogs in my 900 sq. foot apartment. 50 lbs of dog, total. I am fairly sure the Banana has somehow already been informed of the coming change to her only-child status. As I write this she is crying and howling and biting my foot and throwing herself against my leg and trying to eat my pie while at the same time jumping up and attempting to balance her four chubby, two-inch legs on the right arm of my chair, failing, wiggling, stuck in the foot of space underneath said chair-arm. She does this thing when she's really upset. Belly and all fur legs on the floor, chin to the floor, she makes this wookie noise that blows her little basset cheeks out. It's the greatest thing I've ever seen.

Probably the Banana will eat the puppy. After I take her outside and she has her I-Just-Ate-a-Bite-of-Something-Twenty-Seconds-Ago-Poop, I will return to having only 48 lbs of dog. Well. Probably not.