|His FACE! I want to just squeeze him to pieces!|
He is a Mastiff. He's only 9 weeks old, and he's bigger than Roxie.
|I'M CUTE, TOO, DAMMIT!! (This was obviously her face before Samson came home.)|
All things considered (including her being old and bitchy), she's taken to him quite well. I think she's getting a kick out of actually being the boss of something. Such a girl. Samson has settled in, hardly whined last night, ate like a champ this morning, pooped on the deck because he hates the stairs, and has shared his rawhide with Captain Awesome (I'll try to get that on film. Gross, but necessary to show his girlfriend later on in life.). He isn't a fan of going outside - he's fine once he gets there, but I kind of have to toss him out the door. Perhaps it is because he is not the most graceful being, and he trips over, well, everything and nothing.
Was I ready for another dog? Not really. Am I looking forward to the puppy phase (which I haven't dealt with in seven years)? Nope. Am I going to give him back? No way. He's soft, and snuggly, and dumb, and he'll eat more than my human kids do, but I am now his mommy. And housebreaking him means that I can backburner potty training Quinn (which terrifies me. He can stay in diapers until he's 12 as far as I'm concerned, although that would be a scosh awkward...).
Well, I suppose I should check on the wee beastie. He could be digging a tunnel to China for all I know.