Hot does not equal sensitive. Just so you know.
McH came home from his business trip much earlier than expected today. No sooner had he walked in the door than he was ushering the family out the door to go visit a German Shepherd breeder about an hour away.
Seriously. No asking were the St. Bernard is buried, no consoling hugs for the family that had to deal with the death and burial of a beloved pet in his absence. Just a silent, though ill-concealed “Yee-haw! I’m getting a German Shepherd now!”
So a grudging welcome to the newest, insanely overpriced, member of our family:
Though the spelling of his name seems quite apt, all things considered, it is changing. Not the spelling. The entire name. Pu-lease!!!! Rudy???
I get naming rights since I didn’t veto the whole stupid, expensive, insane idea (because, really, I am tired of having to veto stupid ideas — I am tired of being the bad guy — why should I always have to be the bad guy?), and because I am the one who is going to be home all day every day with this dog, vacuuming up its hair and cleaning up its puke. I’m sure it won’t take a rocket scientist to figure out what I’m naming the dog (and NO, it isn’t George). The kids like my name, too, so there’s something. Though the dog is really at least 100 lbs. too small to deserve the name. 25 Pointless Points to the first person to guess the name correctly.
Also? McH doesn’t get to shave his head again. Ever. In fact, when he’s 62 years old and can no longer grow a full head of hair? I’m going to make him sport a comb over, just out of spite. Heck, I may make him follow in the footsteps of his biological father and do the comb forward. Have you ever seen one of those?
So. Not. Hot.
And George, if you’re out there, Tewt the Newt is hiding under a rock.