He's a pug from the pound, kind of skinny, face like he ran headlong into a concrete wall. Peter wants to call him Monty. My mother promises (really!) that this is it, that she's done, and I finally believe her--we simply can't have any more dogs. We've reached capacity.
On an unrelated note, I became violently ill for no apparent reason around noon and am in a slow recovery that involves me drinking lots of tonic water, which for some reason feels very soothing.
Also, we're calling him Percy, fuck the haters.