Today is Daisy's BirthAversary.
Her made-up birthday (because no one knows her exact age or birth date), and the anniversary of the day we rescued her from the evil pantless crackheads.
I've had her for 3 years now so, for all fictional intents and purposes, she's 6 years old.
Even at the ripe ol' age of 6, my girl's still got it.
Yesterday at the park, a lady told me that she'd pay over 3 thousand bucks to take Daisy off my hands.
Not too shabby for a crackhouse puppy mill rescue dog, eh?
I could use that 3 grand, too.
But no. I've become slightly attached (read: overly obsessive and crazy-dog-lady-in-love) to my chick, hence all these bajillion phone pictures of her.
She's all I've got.
So Happy BirthAversary, my girly.
Thanks for the cuddles, the cute pig noises, and the attempts to find me a boyfriend in your awkward doggy way (you can stop that, though).
Thanks for being the kinda dog that even dog-haters love.
Thanks for curling up on my lap if I'm crying, and jumping around like a wonky drunk bunny if I'm laughing.
Thanks for going in the fridge that one night and leaving a beer by the couch for me.
And thanks for being the best damn dog ever. Now let's go chase some shit.
(Sentimental Kris moment - over.)