And this is the expurgated version.
I couldn’t quite bring myself to crap up the Register even further with personal pictures, but I can bring myself to do it here!
Here is our first look at the puppy, who is eight weeks old, and his name is Shane (yes, as in “Shane! Shane! Come back!”):
Here he is in the back seat, wondering who the hell we are, where his mommy went, and why we didn’t think to borrow a cage or crate for a three-hour ride, especially if the car is going to make horrible jerking movements and a grinding noise and smoke is going to billow out from the hood:
and here is my husband and the puppy on the side of the road, thinking about transmissions, and life and stuff:
Here I am after our thunderstormery walk down the highway, just starting to realize the gravity of our situation:
And here is the inside of my brain when my husband told me how much transmissions cost:
and here we are having a slightly illegal public aperitif before I sent him back for some food that was not corn nuts:
and here is how things stood the very next day:
Sunny and happy, more or less. Nobody has slept in four days and our house smells like pee, but PUPPYYYYYYYYYYY!!!!!!