For an hour yesterday evening, the number of pomeranians in our house rose from one to two.
If you’ve ever had a pomeranian, you know that critical pom mass is reached when there is more than one.
The world cannot handle that much cute and fluffy in a confined space. Cannot.
This, more than any nuclear weaponry, threatens the very existence of life on this planet.
We dared to hasten this implosion last night.
Flash back: The Sourpussians are eating dinner.
The doorbell rang, and we knew it was one of The Goose’s playmates.
Hubs went to tell the child that we were eating, and that The Goose would be out shortly.
When he opened the door, and there was the mother of the kid down the street, holding a pom.
“We found Daisy!” said the kid.
Daisy von Pom Pom, knowing that there was an interloper at the door, came charging out.
Confused, the neighbors looked at the pom in their arms, and the snarling squirrel-pom on the floor.
“We thought this was your dog! So we brought her back, but…it’s not.”
No, it was not our dog. It was Mystery Pom.
Mystery Pom was smaller than Daisy von Pom Pom. He was groomed better than Daisy. He had a black snout. Otherwise, a very similar puppy.
Flipping Mystery Pom’s collar, we determined that there was a local vet that we could contact with the tag numbers to find the owner. Mystery Pom also had ear tats.
Hubby called the vet while I took Mystery Pom in the house.
Mystery Pom proceeded to terrorize poor Daisy von PomPom.
He sat in her bed.
He ate her food.
He played with her pink monkey toy.
He danced, hoping for chicken treats.
He chased her in circles.
Fed up, Daisy gave in to a fit of ear piercing barking at Mystery Pom.
By this time, Mystery Pom was being carried around by the kids. They were asking to keep him.
I uttered “No way in hell” and “over my dead body” a few times.
Hubby informed me that the vets had given him the number for Mystery Pom’s owners.
So he called. And called. And called. The phone was busy.
The address was nowhere close to our ‘hood. I briefly wondered in Mystery Pom was stolen or leaped out of a car.
Mystery Pom was named…ELLIOT.
Yes, Elliot the Pom was right at home, and probably could have cared less if he ever went back to his people.
Eventually, a tearful teenager showed up at the door, sobbing for Elliot.
The kids were disappointed at having to hand Elliot over. Finders keepers, chicky.
I was relieved. The double pom saga had ended happily.
Life could return to normal. One pom. The usual amount of pom piddles all over the house. Regularly scheduled barking hysteria.
Except my daughters are now writing ballads to Elliot.
“Oh…Elliot! You are a pom! We looooooooved you. Ohhhh…..Elliot…you are so cute. I missssss you.”
They should not be surprised when Daisy Von PomPom shits in their shoes later.