5:30 am and up with a sick dog. I awake to my little beagle Sadie at my bedside. (I am currently sleeping on the futon in the playroom because my parents have commandeered my bedroom, which contains my most prized posession...my king sized "dino-bed"...I am thankful for my parents who drove six hours to be here this weekend and who paid for the bed so they are really its rightful owners).
Anyway, my dog is sick because she got in the kitchen garbage can which had the miniscule remnants of the Thanksgiving turkey carcass in it's bowels (making quite a mess of my kitchen floor which was actually relatively clean for a change) and made a meal of some turkey bones. This was particularly disappointing, as I had just been bragging about how my 4-year old Jacob and I had broken her of this bad habit by sporadically yelling at the garbage can over a period of weeks, "bad garbage can!!" (you can imagine my son's delight at this ritual).
I awake to a smell that can only mean Sadie has left me a present somewhere in the house and she has pressed her snout into my sleeping face to announce it. So I have cleaned up the vile mess, which she has creatively made in the foyer (I am thankful she thoughtfully used the tile rather than the carpet) and doused the area with enough Lysol to choke a horse...and have returned to the futon in hopes of a bit more sleep before inevitably being pounced on by my son all too soon...
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This is hysterical!
ReplyDeleteWe had a wonderful dog. Well, wonderful by our standards because we had so few where our dog was concerned in that we allowed her to roam around the neighborhood. She was never hungry at the end of the day because she was into so many great garbage pails. I look back in horror at my attitude then. I never realized how offensive I was having a 'free range dog' until I took a walk and brought my pooch with me. Of course she wasn't on a leash because that would be pet abuse.
Some neighbor who lived about four blocks away saw me and started shouting awful things I couldn't even repeat here. I kept looking around wondering why was she so upset? I didn't even know her. She pointed at the ground (now I realize it was at my dog) and her hands were flying around like she was swatting bees. Then I noticed she was wearing a beret so I figured she must be an artist or something, real temperamental type. So I waved back and kept going. Sometimes that's what we have to do when people become overreactive.