A Girl’s Best Friend.

No, this post isn't about diamonds. (Although, I do believe that diamonds are ALSO a girl's best friend. I have lots of friends, remember?)

I firmly believe that the world can be broken down into two types of people; dog people and cat people. I think that the best kind of cat is a dead cat, therefore labeling myself a dog person. I LOVE dogs. And no, not the kind you keep outdoors, tied to a stake in the middle of your yard, but the kind that get their very own cake for their birthday and sleep at the foot of your bed every night.


Dawdy. Billykins RJ Tramp. Doogie Bowser MD (for Mighty Dog!).

A mutt, an Otterhound and a Cairn Terrier. These dogs were my best four-legged friends growing up. Dawdy was my parents dog, given to my mom as a puppy during her college years. He would attend classes with her and spend late nights grooving to music in coffee houses. He was the "perfect" dog and the dog all future dogs would be compared to. I was four years old when Dawdy died and for weeks I would curl up in his dog bed with my rosary beads, praying for a new puppy. Seriously. When my parents couldn't stand to see me heartbroken any longer, we traveled over two hundred miles to a breeder in Emaus, Pennsylvania where I fell in love with an Otterhound puppy. It wasn't long before "Billy" literally outgrew our house in the suburbs (he was over six feet tall when he stood on his hind legs) and was shipped cross-country to a wonderful family in Colorado, complete with a horse ranch and acres and acres of land for Billy to roam.

"Doogie" showed up next, in the back of my mother's Suzuki Jeep, one day while picking me up from grade school. I was seven at the time and as I climbed into the backseat of the car, Doogie looked up at me with a huge blue bow around his neck and it was love at first sight. Over the next 17 years, Doogie became a part of the family and despite his food/toy aggression, the fact that he never gave kisses and and his "his way or the highway" attitude, we loved him to pieces. I distinctly remember the phone call I received while standing in my dorm room at college asking if I wanted to come home "because Doogie wasn't being his usual self." This was just a week before Christmas. Shortly before I was due to come home for Christmas break, my parents brought Doogie into the vet for the last time. Merry Christmas, Ashley. I was devastated, as we all were. Even my Dad cried- and he hated that dog more than he liked him.

Ever since then, I've wanted a replacement dog. That's how it was growing up, right? Your dog dies or gets shipped off to a new state and within weeks/months, you get a new one. So why should it be any different this time?

Fast forward four years. (I'll spare you the dramatics, but just know they were four, very long very dog-less years.) Until that is, November 12, 2008. After realizing that our dream dog, a yellow labrador retriever, wasn't going to be retrieving anything for us in the near future, thanks to the allergies of yours truly, Hubs and I had to switch gears and start looking for a dog of the hypoallergenic variety. Since I refused to love anything with -oodle at the end of its name, ie: Poodle, Schnoodle, Shih-doodle, etc, suddenly we realized the options were few and far between. Seeing my life as a dog-owner suddenly flashing before my eyes I dedicated (most) of my free waking hours to some serious research.

After weeks of intense puppy research and quizzes such as, "What Kind of Dog Family are You?" I finally found the true second love of my life, an Olde English Sheepdog puppy from a breeder in Pleasant Plains Arkansas.

Sorry Hubs, but it looks like that new flatscreen TV would have to wait.

Hubs and I won't be exchanging Christmas presents this year, mostly because our Christmas present is currently gnawing on the crown molding.

And to my wonderful husband who really never wanted a dog in the first place, I promise I won't ask for anything ever again.. (except maybe a new couch).