On Saturday, December 5th, The Husband and I headed out shopping for a Christmas tree. Somehow along the way, we found ourselves at the animal rescue center instead.
The rescue center was full of dogs and only one puppy. I wanted an older dog, one who had already been trained and didn't have much hope of adoption, but the woman that worked there was adamant we take the puppy. I took one look at him and knew he was ours.
He was a three month old half Staffordshire, half Belgian Shepherd that The Husband immediately named Fifty (guess what we were listening to in the car on the way there). Fifty and his siblings had been abandoned in a box next to a dumpster (he's my slumdog). Luckily, someone found them and brought them to the rescue center.
That first night, we gave him a bath and he slept for eight hours straight. He hasn't slept through a night since.
He is at times the bane of my existence but always my furry little angel (even if he does terrorize the village)...
five month old Fifty and his much older girlfriend, Vicky