Augustine Spots LIke a Cow

I started this entry, by start I mean I uploaded the picture, several days ago. But, upon that very moment that pictured sad/sweet-eyed creature relieved herself on our floors for the 6,529th time and I had to set down my trusty Mac to clean up after her. When I had finally retired back to my once refuge, the couch, I had nothing but vitriolic feelings for that hound, and as such have left this until this moment.

Now that she has mastered the art of ringing a bell to be let outside, though not yet the connection between needing to do so before she attends to her bodily functions, and is safely (?) running amok betwixt the far too tall shade grass and fallen pecans, I have a free moment to address all that is Augustine Spots Like a Cow Rowe.

Once the imminency of Two Socks' all too soon end was made horrifically and sorrowfully apparent we finalized the installation of our newest four-legged. Being the impulsive creature that I am, any number or type of canine could have found sanctuary at the Manse at the close of that nasty business if it had not been for our plans.

My buddy had decided that he wanted a Basset Hound and had found a breeder in Webber's Falls, a small town in Northeastern Oklahoma. All that was left was to wait for a new litter to be born as we needed, apparently, first choice. My compulsive checking of the website resulted in us being the first to respond to the, at that time, latest posting of a litter, born February 14th. We originally picked the cutest of the two boys, but as the weeks passed we opted for a little lady to fill the proverbial shoes of our Red Dog.

Enter Augustine. The breeder (Okie Dokie Bassets) was really great at putting up pictures every couple of weeks of the litter, and as they grew so too did our giddy anticipation. After 7 weeks of waiting, one of the world's most horrendous drives (Steak n' Shake you are no friend of mine) and nearly meeting our end ala Deliverance via our misguided turns into random eastern Oklahoman private drives we arrived at our destination. Greeted roundly by the baying, barking, whining and general commotion that is assuredly to be assigned to packs of Bassets, Linda, heretofore known as "the breeder," brought out a sack of potatoes. That is to say she brought out our little, lumpy, dead weight rectangular prism of fur.

The rabbit soft fur and soulful eyes disarmed me immediately. The puppy breath was like a Mike Tyson hit. I was done.

She was the picture of perfection night one. Sleeping soundly, giving skunky kisses, and liberating her bladder on grass or dirt only.

Little liar.

That was not to be the case in subsequent days and all too short nights. Our veterinarian (Classen View= amazing) summed it up prophetically: "there's a reason they are so cute..." You could set footage of this little one to a two-note symphony, think Roy Scheider 1975, and feel the hairs on the back of your neck rise as your immediate misfortune was suddenly realized.

She is a monster.

At her unveiling to my very disapproving and more that a little judgmental father, she did the most unholy thing on his hardwood floors. Terrible in every way.

That said, she has learned to ring the bell, climb up and down the stairs to the couch, plays with our little Mexican, and is still soft like a rabbit.

I love her. I'm mildly obsessed with her. At 4:40 when she wakes me up I am glad to pull her from crate to bed; and am instantly soothed by the sound of her breath, the rise and fall of her chest and luxuriously soft coat that rests on me as I quickly fall back into a deep and restful sleep.

I'm still not to sure about this corn-chip scented breed in general, but this little paddle-footed lady is just about the cutest thing I've met.