So our building here in DC requires all of its residents to acquire a dog within six months of moving in. That’s completely made up, but you wouldn’t be able to tell. In any event, Emily and I recently joined the fray, and we have a little mutt of our own. Here he is:
Another requirement: All U-M grads who acquire a dog must name it something Michigan-related. So, with many thanks to those of you who participated in my informal “help us name the dog” contest last month, we have chosen to name this furry critter “Brady.” We figure the name is foolproof. It’s partially a nod to our current coach, since five months after Michigan hired Brady Hoke, my lymph nodes are shrinking and Columbus is a smoldering crater. But even if Hoke doesn’t work out, we have Tom Brady as the backup plan. So no matter what, we won’t end up like those people who have a little mutt named RichRod running around right now, pooping in the fridge and giving up 42 points a game.
Brady is an awesome pup (he’s a French Bulldog, btw). Incredibly people-friendly, doesn’t chew everything in sight, pees inside at a very low rate, and doesn’t require much exercise (he gets winded after about half a block). He quickly stole the apartment vomiting crown from me, but his bouts are much less violent and do not require ER visits, so we’ll allow it. Most of the time, he just wants to hang out:
Sadly, my recent work-imposed absenteeism caused Emily to steal the dog and flee to Michigan. She said it was for a “wedding” and to “see her family,” but it’s quite obvious she likes the dog a hell of a lot more than me, and I’m skeptical about her plans to return. Here’s Brady smoking a giant stogie:
So that’s our dog. Now my female readers can commence their high-pitched “ooooooohhhhhh!!” squeals and proceed to run over to pet the dog, at which point Emily will realize she has just given me a tool to get every sun-dress-wearing twenty-something skintern on the street to strike up a conversation with me.