I'm writing more than reading, lately, so here's my backup report. Shylah Fionne, 80-ish days old.
"I'm gonna get you dogs coming up the stairs. You better watch out, you're mine. Wait! Come back! I don't know how to go down yet."
She gained five pounds in a week. She has 20 different ways of snorting. When really happy, she sleeps flat on her back. She's eaten two pom-poms off my slippers, half a sock, the edge of a cardboard box, and part of an iPod instruction manual. She attacks the golden retriever, but rolls over when the German Shepherd growls at her. When wet, she loses half of her apparent bulk. She likes to lick wax out of the dogs' ears. She snuggles deep into my armpit, and then sighs. When given a choice of a soft blanket, chenille towel, and my old sweatshirt, she'll choose my scented rags every time.
We will breed her, but I won't be able to give up the puppies. I see myself laying in my sun porch, surrounded by warm rolls of fluffy, snorting, nibbling dogs, reading and petting, reading and petting.