I have a dog.  She is a puggle and her name is Deva (which is pronounced Day-vah).  She is very much a princess, and I have no idea where she gets it.

Deva is almost entirely opposite of my last dog, Yogi Beara.  Yogi was a black Chow Chow.  Yogi is the only dog I’ve ever met who would walk away from you while you were petting him.  He had no interest in treats or toys.  I would fill his food bowl and he would eat when he felt like it.  On the occasions that I managed to get some petting in, he would immediately shake himself off (we referred to it as “shaking off the love”).  He was mostly content to lay around and nap and stretch and yawn.  He refused to get onto furniture or my bed, despite my frequent invitations.  The only thing that ever really got Yogi interested was Indian food.  I could leave a nice medium-rare filet mignon on my coffee table, and he would lazily lift his head, sniff two times, and go back to snoring.  But a paper plate that had at some point held Indian food would be devoured.

Deva loves toys.  She loves attention.  She eats her food within 15 seconds of it landing in her dish.  She has to be curled up next to me at all times and is happiest when she can lay behind me on the top of the couch and rest her head on my shoulder (seriously).  Deva would love nothing more than constant petting.  And I can’t keep her off the furniture.  If I have any socks or underwear in my bedroom, I can rest assured that I will come home to her surrounded by them with a pair in her mouth.

These two dogs are able to so perfectly portray the dichotomous nature of my personality, that I have to figure it was in the fates or the hands of God or my horoscope or something that they have been my consecutive pets.  I’ve learned a lot from both of them, and as much as I would prefer to embrace my laid-back, Yogi-style side, I can’t dismiss the parts of me that are all Deva.

Which makes me the worst kind of girl.