You do extensive research on his geneaology. You obsess about what his parents look like and how his siblings have turned out. You keep up with his daily growth by asking for new pics. You pay an extensive sum of money to purchase him and to get him flown to your home. This is called, "I am in love with a puppy."
My husband loves dogs, and I can't say that I am a pet lover, but in the past he has convinced me to house not one pitt bull, but two pitt bulls in an 800 square foot condo. Let's just say, it wasn't a great idea, and particularly the second pitt bull turned out to be a monster who took out his demonic ways on my clothes, shoes, and anything I was fond of. What was even worse was how this dog, Flex, would butter me up after his abuse on my things, and cuddle up next to me like nothing ever happened. Eventually, I got so tired of Flex's ways that I convinced Mario to give him away. I will say that the day we gave him away, I cried like a girlfriend who was breaking up with a man that was no good for her.
Several years have passed without a dog, and I have truly enjoyed it. But now that we live in a larger home in St. Louis, Mario developed a solid sales pitch on how a dog would be great for safety, serve as a great companion for Milan, and could even bring in some cash. He sold me, like he usually does.
The beautiful dog showed up prettier than any dog I have ever seen. He walked with a soft stride, brushed up against you gracefully, and even pounced on his toys with an adorable coyness. It was all beautiful, until I walked into our formal living room, and I saw the oddest looking thing on my carpet. Is that poop on my carpet?? Is that a piece of bone lodged in there?
Reality hit-- the puppy love was over, at least for me.