THIS IS OLIVER.

And he is not an Iams dog.

Matter of fact, he is a you’ll-eat-whatever-dog-food-I-give-you-and-like-it kind of dog.

He doesn’t mind.

Ollie cracks me up. He stole my stuffed animal and packs it around the house. He steals my socks and hides them in his cage, but this isn’t a bad thing — it means that all the missing socks in my house now have a home and I don’t have to round them up myself. Kind of useful really. Ollie jumps at the word “go” and knows the name Rosco (his brother). He can sit, lay down, crawl and shake. And according to Grams, he can also scare off visiting teachers and the occasional mailman. He has many names, Oliver Twist being the official one, Ollie for short, and then Chaweenie, Jaws, Mutley, Hoover, Pumpa, Dog, Hey You and GET OUT OF THAT GARBAGE.

There are times when I’ve had a long day (for example yesterday, going to work and then back to college for the first time in two weeks) when all I want to do when I get home is crash on the couch and not bother to turn the lights on, when just ignoring everything for even twenty minutes sounds divine. I’ll drag my feet up those steps to Grams’ and knock on the door to pick up Ollie, and he will come bounding out the door and jump on me, and the energy level and excitement from that little dog is enough to keep me going for the night. It’s nice to have something so happy to come home to.