Introducing Milo

The gender drought has officially broken.  No, I am not dating. But the Mummyfried household moved in a male - and we're all hopelessly in love. Each in our own way. He's demanding, exhausting, loves unconditionally, eats constantly, sleeps constantly, and poops wherever he pleases. We have welcomed a puppy into the fold. Mr. Milo. And yes, I feel like a toddler in a candy store: thrilled but clueless. This furry little tornado spins through the house on FULL CYCLE.

Despite the cute ads, online puppy training courses have been ignored. Instead, I'm trawling the internet for free puppy tips while imagining the vet rolling his eyes with every phone call. But here's my truth bomb: I'm not paying someone to teach me how to train my dog when I can wing it. How hard can it be? (Cue ominous music.)

Miss Tween-soon-to-be-Teen—adores Milo. She's all heart-eyes and giggles. Until it's time to pick up his "presents." That's where the romance fades. My phone buzzes at work: "Please come home and pick up his number two." Another message follows: "He's done a number one. I covered it with tissue. Please. Come. Home." The same child who can only be bribed to unload the washing machine (not hang the clothes, obviously) is now a self-appointed poop consultant. Size, density, and aroma are reported in excruciating detail. It's like she's narrating a nature documentary I never signed up for.

And the teen?  Her love is a tightrope walk between affection and pure sarcasm. "You're so ugly and stupid!" she declares, with the sweetness of a particularly spiteful kitten. Yet, when no one's looking, Milo's fur clings to her all-black outfit like a failed fashion statement. She'd never admit it, but she has a crush.

When I called to check if she'd let Milo out of his pen (the only thing standing between my IKEA furniture and total destruction), she answered like a sleep-deprived zombie. "What do you want?" If I could bottle that tone, I'd have the next anti-anxiety breakthrough. "I'm neurodivergent, okay? Multitasking isn't my thing. You have a choice: I drop the dog or the phone. Take your pick. Before I could answer, she was already muttering like a 90-year-old. "Who even calls on a landline anymore?"

And so begins the latest episode in our home's circus, where puppy love meets sarcasm, and chaos is just part of the charm.

Here's to Milo—our adorable, chewing, chaos-making furball. 2025 started in shit (literally), and we have loads more around the house till he is fully vaccinated and we can take him out on routine walks and poop drops. 

So I am getting there (ie, achieving my dreams slowly) but am no longer manifesting. I'm working with intent. Stay tuned for more misadventures in the Mummyfried household.

See evidence of the furball's destruction, and Mr. Innocent himself with a 'I've done nothing wrong' face, but I instinctively need to hide.