News Item #1: I have a boyfriend. For his sake, I’ll skip the public cyber schmaltz. Any questions you have regarding the subject (estimated betrothal dates, etc.—kidding, Anthony! And Dad. Hehe), I’ll be happy to address via personal email.



Which segues into:

News Item #2: My boyfriend’s puppy is lodging with me for a bit. Her name is Soju, and she’s really sort of my fault—I’ll admit to a speck of goading (“Awww, you should get one!”) as we stood gushing over a teeming box of puppies at the market one afternoon—and for this reason, 25% of her person—I mean, puppy—has been relegated to my ownership. I’ve chosen a back haunch.

I suppose “fault” implies “mistake”, though, and she’s far too fabulous to be called a mistake. Of course, mine is not the apartment she spent a good deal of energy destroying in her first few months. Puppies love to chew on things, apparently. I wouldn’t know, as my parents cruelly denied me any fur-laden, emotion-inducing creatures throughout my own childhood. Snakes? Okay! Grasshoppers? Alright! Dogs? Forget it.



I offered to take Soju a few weeks ago, as Anthony needed to prep his place for an apartment swap, and, of course, considering my cataclysmic pleas for the pup’s purchase, I thought I might take a little responsibility, step up to the plate, so to say. I expected enthusiasm at the proposal, but he said, hesitantly, Thank you. I’ll think about it. This reinforced a lesson I learned a little over a year ago: Men love dogs more than they’re often publicly willing to let on. (Reference “The Love Story That Was Ron and Bo.” Film version currently in the works.)

Before she moved in, I admit, I had a few anxieties about how we’d get along, but really, she isn’t the shit terrorist* that Jennie’s dog, Bo, was when a puppy, and although I admit to a shoddy memory, this is what I remember disliking most about that rambunctious pup.
She’s peed on the floor only when overcome with excitement (to see me!), has dragged only a few embarrassing dust bunnies out from under the bed, administered minimal damage to my difficult-to-replace Mac power cord, and has eaten only a relatively small section of lime-tinted wallpaper. I’ve had worse roommates.

*Note: Soju pooped on the floor for the first time roughly two hours after this line was written. Jinx!


She’s a fabulous running buddy, actually. Took her out for the first time last week, figuring to knock out the dog walk and personal run in one go-round, and we had a great time. Now she goes with me every time. She’s fine off the leash and just trots beside me as I amble along, her perfect little face poised upward at me, ears at point, tongue hanging happily, loving and endearing. Sometimes she gets a bit curious about something off the path, and runs into the grass and bushes, but I simply call out, “Soju!” and she gallops back over. On-looking Koreans must think I’m crazy, as soju is the name of their national hard liquor. Imagine somebody running down the streets of your neighborhood, yelling, “Vodka!”, “Rum!”, or “Beer!”

She reminds me a lot of Bo, in that she’s super social, and just wants to be near you. I thought I might feel smothered by the responsibility of another body to take care of—I usually have enough trouble taking care of myself—but it’s rather nice to come home to life and unconditional love, jumping at your shins.