She has a thing for toes.
I was The Meanest Mrissa In The World last night: I put her in her crate to sleep all by herself. She'd never had to sleep by herself before, and she cried piteously. It didn't last long, though: between the trip home and playing in the backyard with markgritter, she was a pretty zonked puppy and did not wake up when I got up this morning.
(Edited to add: timprov has posted the first puppy picture since we brought her home. More to follow. I'm also in the picture.)
In non-puppy news, I have the curious sensation of having entered the Season Of Birthday too soon. My family is very holiday-oriented (one friend once described us to someone who hadn't met us by saying, "They have Arbor Day traditions"), so usually there's some observance of Fourth of July. This year we were in London. We passed around a bag of red, white, and blue peanut M&Ms on the bus, and my mom wore a star-spangled scarf, and that was the extent of that. I'm glad it was: it would have been obnoxious to wander around London singing "My Country 'Tis of Thee" or some such, since we picked a specific week to be there. But still, it feels like the record player has skipped here. I have my first birthday present of the year already, and that's not even counting the "surprise" markgritter got me in the gift shop at Kew Gardens. And I'm starting to think of what to serve for my birthday party (and hey, please come to that, local people! and tell me if you are, if you know in advance!), and it's just a bit confusing. The Season Of Birthday is a fairly big thing in Mrissaland. I need to schedule ice cream with one set of people who can't make the party (you know who you are), because, hey, birthday! Not for another fortnight, but still: one fortnight to my birthday! That's right on top of us, almost.