News flash: We adopted Archie three days ago, after years and years of me saying things like over my dead body will we bring another male being into this already testosterone-laced household where no one ever cleans the sink after he brushes his teeth and the level of cursing, oh my god, is higher than on board the Jolly Roger, and besides who the hell is going to walk/feed/pick up poop/remove burrs?
What an idiot I was. Archie is, without question, the sweetest, gentlest, smartest, most perfect orphan ever rescued from mean, neglectful people and dropped into a house that really doesn’t deserve so much good luck. He came to us with (a) a crate he likes to sleep in at night and (b) a basic knowledge of how to sit when you ask him to and use the bathroom outside.
Now it’s also true that the only other pet I’d ever cared for before Archie the wonder dog was a goldfish named Harold (named after the first boy I kissed), and so my confidence about how I’d do as a pet guardian was not very high. Piece of cake, though, when you have a sweet dog like Archie, who pretty much just wants to hang out with you and watch you adoringly and lick your feet. (I kid you not. And believe me, I am not getting that kind of treatment anywhere else on the Jolly Roger.) Plus, one of the nicest men around, with one of the most interesting, entertaining blogs going, is named Archie. The dog gods have smiled on us and I just thought you’d rather know that today than the answer to the burning question, what was it about the Italians that kind of bugged Dickens? You’ll find that out soon enough.