Almost a month ago, an eight-week-old puppy named Leni came into my life. She’s cute as a button, sleeps a lot, loves to watch Anthony Bourdain on television and thoroughly enjoys chicken. And she’s a purebred cocker spaniel.
But before you label me a cashed-up irresponsible asshole, let me explain.
As a couple, my boyfriend and I had been planning for Leni’s arrival for a long, long time. Almost a year, in fact.
It’s included moving houses to live somewhere that is larger and closer to a park, months of ‘rainy day savings’ should she ever need any emergency vet treatment, considering how much time we can offer a pet each day, looking at our work arrangements, questioning why it was we even wanted a pet to begin with, and perhaps most importantly, countless visits to rescue dog homes.