Samson

What's up, gang.

Avoid these motherf***ers at all cost.

Remember a couple years ago when we owned a pair of Guinea Pigs?  Remember that?  How we bought them under the pretext that the girls would hopefully learn some responsibility by taking care of them, cleaning their cage on a regular basis, feeding them, etc.?  How after a couple months Kris and I found ourselves cleaning the cage three times a week, and our kids didn't lift a finger in the caring of said rodents, and how we ended up dropping them off at a local pet store in defeat?

The artist formerly known as 'Ricky.'

One of the dumbest things I ever told my kids was that if they would go along with this surrendering of their pets, then we would get a second dog.  I have no idea what motivated me to say something like this, and Kris could've murdered me.  Rest assured, for the next two years the girls regularly asked when we were getting a second dog, and once and awhile Kris and I would go on apps like PetFinder and snoop around.  We never found much, though.

Fast forward to the present.  Kris was browsing a rescue shelter called K9 Stray, down in Oxford, and came across a dachshund mix named Ricky.  This poor son of a bitch had been living on the streets and was picked up by Animal Control somewhere in Ohio (the Butthole of the Country.)  The rescue shelter had received Ricky and had been nursing him back to health, as he was starved and malnourished when they received him:

Ricky, when the shelter first received him from Animal Control.

Since he was a stray, they obviously didn't know his exact age, but they estimated it to be between 1 - 2 years, as he didn't have any of his puppy teeth anymore, but was still very juvenile in his behavior.  Due to his malnourishment over the years, his bones were very weak, and his front legs were underdeveloped, something that the shelter said would improve with a better diet and exercise.  Regardless, he'd would suffer from arthritis for the rest of his life.

How he looked the morning Kris drove down and checked him out.

Kris was very interested in Ricky, as he was described as a submissive and affectionate dog that was good around other dogs and kids, so she had me fill out an adoption application while I was at work and send it in to the shelter.  The very next day, while I was at work, I received a call from the shelter saying that they were interested in us meeting the dog.  Kris fortunately had the day off, so she drove downstate to check him out, with Watson in tow (the shelter requested we bring him as well, just to make sure the dogs got along with one another.)

Watson had to wait in the car while Kris went in first to fill out paperwork and check out the dog.  After awhile, she and a staff member had to bring Ricky outside into 'neutral' territory for the two dogs to meet.  Watson obviously dominated the younger, smaller dog - no surprises there - but they got along great, the shelter was convinced of the fit, and we got the green light.

After filling out a bunch of paperwork, we got ourselves a new dog.  The shelter was really accomodating:  when they found out we didn't have a second dog seat in Kris' van, they sold Kris a really nice dog crate (with bedding) for $7 (they only took cash and that's all Kris had on her at the time.)  They also gave us a collar, a high-end harness, and a leash, free of charge.  Had we bought all this separately on Amazon, we would've dropped at least $100, so the fact we walked out with so much was definitely appreciated.

On her drive back home, Kris and I went back and forth with names for this guy, as neither of us were fans of 'Ricky.'  My top names - Brutus, Sancho, Hugo, Porthos - were all shot down by Kris for being too 'weird.'  Her names - Leo, Frank, Walter, etc. - were just, well, terrible.  Eventually, in the end, I came up with 'Samson,' and that one stuck.

So, anyway, here you go, America - yet another f***ing mouth to feed in the Hough House.

Behold. . .

Samson, set up in the back of Kris' van, getting ready to ride back up to Midland.

Watson isn't so sure about this. . .

By the time Kris got back, I was home from work (some of us work on Fridays.)  She left to go pick up Abby from my mom's house (Alayna was away for the evening at a friend's house), so I was tasked with supervising Watson and Samson as the former showed the latter around the house.  There was a shit-load of barking.

A temporary setup for the time being.

Abby meets Samson. . .

This dude doesn't sit still for shit.

 

There was a lot of this.

Finally calm.

 

Towards the end of the night.  Both of these idiots were worn out.

When it was time to put Samson to sleep (he's gonna be in his crate for quite awhile, I think), Abby deemed it necessary to read him a bedtime story to help him go to sleep.

The next morning, Watson showed the new guy the ropes as to how mornings go around these parts.

Watson definitely gets jealous whenever Samson comes up to me.  I can't so much as pet the new dog without him getting in my face.

Samson has taken a shine to Abby, which is nice because Watson avoids her like the plague.

Snuggle buddies

Alayna finally returns from her sleepover and meets the new dog.  If you think her reaction is lackluster, it's because she had caught wind up of all of this Thursday evening, when she overheard Kris and I talking about dog beds for Samson.  She's a terrible actress.

I went to Home Depot and bought a dog run for the backyard, seeing how are yard isn't completely fenced in.  Not that we need it right now - the dog hates going in the snow.

Welcome to the shitshow, Samson. . .

- Brian