you know you love me

We're having a white party. Gossip Girl style. For Ella. Our dog.

Now, if you don't have a dog or if you have a dog that you treat like a pet, you might think this post is a little strange. My sister probably will. She doesn't understand the deep love that I have for Ella. Or that Ella has for me. That's why she gets grossed out when we share ice cream. Or lollipops.

But, I love my dog - in a kind of crazy way. I admit.

You see, I wanted a dog my whole entire life. More than anything. Each Christmas, I would ask Santa for a puppy, and I would never get one. Well, one Christmas I did. It was a stuffed dog with a note - Santa couldn't bring a real one, but he thought you might like this one instead. I did love Spunky. I wasn't coldhearted.  But what I really wanted was a real dog.

When I was little, I remember my parents taking me to a birthday party for the dog of one of their friends.  The dog's name was Mudslide Slim, and he hid under the table the whole party. But, the party was fabulous. And, I remember thinking, "I want a dog to love like that." Now, I have one. And, she's the best.

I didn't get Ella, though, until I was 28 years old. I had a bad break-up, and I thought, "What the heck am I waiting for?" And, I went to the nearest breeder to pick out a puppy. I would have gone to the pound, but my roommate at the time claimed she was allergic (she claimed a lot of things... that she was monogamous... that she was religious... that she wasn't a liar... but that's another story). So, I had to find a hypo-allergenic dog, and the best of the bunch, I thought, was a Westie. As luck would have it, there was a breeder in Bear, Delaware by Lums Pond. In retrospect, he was a little slow and probably had in his garage what Oprah would classify as a puppy mill, but it all worked out, so I try not to dwell.

I reserved Ella, who was trapped in a pen with a very aggressive Cairn terrier. When I came in, she looked at me with eyes that said, "Please, please save me. Look at him," gesturing to the Cairn, "he's out of control." A few days later and several hundred dollars poorer (thank goodness for Stafford Loans), Ella came home with me.

She has such personality. Of her own. And that I've created. For her first birthday, we had a blowout at our little house in George Read Village that used to belong to W.D. Snodgrass. It felt like the entire city of Newark was there. There was a cake, some singing, and a lot of drinking.

Last year, we started the tradition again. Mr. Beeton and I had gotten married in the fall, and we wanted to have our mish-mosh of friends that we'd acquired to our apartment. We threw a Super Sweet Six party, MTV style - chocolate cupcakes with lime icing and super delicious beer and tequila punch. 

So, this year, to celebrate Ella's seventh birthday, we're having a white party. She's white; we'll be wearing white; and we'll be serving white sangria. Right now, I should be planning the menu, but instead, I'm blogging about the craziest little dog in the world who's sleeping, right now, at my feet.

Keep sweeping, Martha