I never got around to making the birth announcement, but in case you weren’t invited to the shower (with best high pressure shower head), here she is!
Her name is Mila Kunis, for reasons that are obvious.
We rescued her a few months ago, and we all love her. Well, most of us, anyway.
Of course, as any mother will tell you, a child tends to try to live up to the name that has been bestowed upon her. Therefore, Mila Kunis is 100% movie starlet. She has single-handedly put to rest the myth that dogs only see in black and white, because it’s obvious this baby is visualizing red carpets wherever she goes.
The most frustrating manifestation of her rich girl personality is a complete lack of comprehension that the back yard is her powder room. I have to drag her out there on a leash and then the conversation goes something like this (to get the full picture, imagine Mila Kunis’ voice as a cross between a vat of melted butter and the tinkle of freaking fairy bells):
ME: What is wrong with you, idiot dog? Go potty!
ME: It’s cold out here! Will you just do something!
ME: I don’t get it! Didn’t they house train you at all where you used to live?!
It took us a full two months and a number of bath mats to discover that the reason Mrs. Kutcher wouldn’t poop in the back yard is because there’s no grass. We live in the city, the back yard is the size of a double bed, and nothing grows there except slugs and despair. The minute we took her to the park with its lush greenery, she assumed the squatted heiny position we’d been begging for with tears. However, did I mention that our back yard is six inches outside the back door and the park is four blocks away and there’s nothing in between those two locations except concrete?
Set-up: Did we adopt a high-maintenance Hollywood pug?
Punchline: Does Mila Kunis crap in the woods?