I remember the first time I saw him, wet from his fresh bath, whimpering because it was just too much too early. I wrapped my arms around him, irritated that my ex had even touched him, because this was my redemption dog, the love of my life. (seriously, it was really early).

I named him Argo. I had a doberman as a kid named Argo, who was such a good boy. On top of that, Xena the Warrior Princess had a delightful horse named Argo. There is, I repeat, there is no Ben Affleck in this decision. Stop bringing up that stupid movie with that stupid man in it. Thanks.

Within three days, he was potty trained. I’m not even kidding. Since he was eight weeks old, I can count how many times he’s pottied in the house and it was all illness related or my misstep. He has wanted to be a good boy since the beginning. I was smitten. I’m now completely in love.


  • Fucking up any toy
  • Playing fetch for hours
  • Resting his head near me when we drive
  • Playing chase with his brother
  • Being my “b-boy”
  • Ice cubes
  • Licking out the ears of the cats


  • The water
  • Small toddlers
  • Potatoes
  • The kennel

We’re doing some awesome training, even dabbled in agility, which he excelled at. I can’t wait to hike with him, bring him on road trips, to teach him some awesome weird tricks. All he wants to do is work, play, work, play, sleep for thirty seconds, work, play, work. I’m even considering bringing him to some photo sessions, holding water and my keys in his brand new orange backpack.

Happy birthday little boy, my good boy, my b-boy. You’re my sweet shitfuck.


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