Aaaaw

I want a dog. I really, really want a dog.

Yesterday, walking from the customers’ offices to the tube station at Røa, we met a spaniel of sorts out for a walk on his own. He was obviously not supposed to be out on his own, so we phoned the number on the name tag and told them where to find him (there was no answer at first, or we would have waited for them to come, but they rang back shortly after – “Oh, dear, is he out walking?”). Point is, of course, that he was adorable, and super-friendly. So I related to Dag how I really want a dog but figure it would be impracticable ( two of the main objections are: my flat’s too small and I’m too often not at home at all between seven in the morning and eleven at night).

But then, to spite my resolve, one of my co-workers has brought in his new boxer puppy this morning. At 10 weeks old most puppies are irresistable, and this one is no exception.

I WANT A DOG.

I can’t have a dog. I can’t have a dog. I can’t have a dog. (Repeat as necessary.)

At the back of my head there is a voice trying to persuade me that it would be possible, but so far my reason keeps kicking in with objections. I could bring him to work, couldn’t I? (Every day? Oh, come off it, girl?) I could sort some sort of space out in the flat where he could stay during the day. (Yeah, because there’s so much spare space there, right?) I could, uhm, bring him on holiday with me. (Because that’s easy, right?)

Voice in my head: Michael Wiehe – Allt vad jag begär