I got my new puppy, Grendel, drunk Tuesday night.

It was an accident! Really, I knocked over my beer, and by the time I ran back with a fistful of paper towels, he was lapping it up. El Burrachito.

I am such a bad parent.

We went to the vet for the first time yesterday. He’s fine, — 12.7 pounds — but we had fleas. I think he came with them — I certainly didn’t give him the fleas.

So, I bathed him for the first time yesterday. I turned it into a game. He loves the oscillating sprinkler in the front yard, and while he stalked and attacked the streams of water, I scrubbed him with baby shampoo. And then, once he was dry, I put on the anti-flea/tick/misquito ointment, which I sincerely wish they made for humans. (When he has fleas, I have fleas. Not fun.)

And I think I’m getting used to waking up at 4 a.m. to let him out to go pee. See, until he’s 6 months old, his bladder will need emptying about every 4 hours. It’s a pain in the butt, but…

And that’s the weird part. I’d been playing with the idea of getting a dog for about two years. I basically kept questioning my reasons for wanting a dog. Companionship? Protection?

It turns out, he’s turned into the main reason I get up in the morning.

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