**Updated to add:** Read Iggy’s first letter home, here. As you can probably tell from the picture, he’s pretty miserable.

Saturday morning Chris and I flew to Alabama to spend ten days with Chris’ family, a rad and righteous (why isn’t this used as an adjective more often?) family who I haven’t seen since before we were engaged (July 9, 2006), and who Chris hasn’t seen since last December.

Perhaps needless to say (we are thrilled to be here, yes! and also) the past few weeks were spent in rapid (and sometimes rabid) preparation for this trip, not the least important detail of said preparation being securing a safe and affordable place for Iggy to stay while we’re away, cavorting with family and drinking our respective weights in sweet tea.

We had originally looked at boarding him, but he is still a youngster (just under five months), and there were so many doggy hoops through which we had to jump, so many forms to complete and “initial interviews” to schedule, and then of course there was the realization that we both would need to donate a vital organ in exchange for a cozy kennel for ten nights, and I might have started to slightly hyperventilate at the thought of parting with my favorite kidney.

Enter (a wing and a prayer, and a Saint named) Chantel.

I know people often speak of friends who would do anything for each other, friends who routinely volunteer to do the unthinkable, to be there for you when you wouldn’t even think to ask them, and I would like to whole-heartedly admit to having my fair share of those types of rare and praise-inspiring friends. But asking one of them to watch your hyperactive, not quite five month old Chinese Pug, who also happens to be prone to excitedly piddling on the floor without a moment’s notice, was not something I ever imagined could fall within the realm of even the best of all friendship capability.

But I asked anyway, hesitantly and for the sake of asking, and she answered “Yes!” so quickly and enthusiastically that I was certain she misunderstood the question.

So on Friday night we carried Iggy and three bags of Iggy’s Essentials into Chantel’s home, whereupon Iggy met Luna for the first time and hilarious chaos ensued. Until the Sniffing In Special Places replaced the frantic fear (on Iggy’s behalf) and gassy introductions, that is.

I don’t mean to suggest that the private probing wasn’t endlessly entertaining, because it certainly was, but it was a bit less “chaotic” and a bit more “bow chicka bow wow.”

The fact that we might have puppies in t-minus three months is growing greater by the day, and while I believe all three of us are a little less over the moon and a little more Katy bar the door! about said possibility, it hasn’t stopped me from silently sing-songing “Iggy and Luna sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g” whenever I think about leaving the little guy, who was no doubt happily sniffing Luna’s hindquarters two moments after we walked out the door.

Iggy is scheduled to be neutered the day after we return from Alabama, and because Luna is close to if not presently entering her first heat, and because she seemingly likes her men small in stature and large in the eyes, the possibility that Iggy may still get his potent day in the sun, and a shot at beating K-Fed in the race for Father of the Year are looking remarkably good.

Now all we need is a custody battle and some Cheetos.