Friday, January 28, 2005
A friend indeed...
A true friend is someone who will keep your dead cat in her freezer, yet won't tell you the nickname her husband has for her because of doing so.
Monday, January 24, 2005
R.I.P. Homey
About three years ago, I thought it was funny to pester Steve about getting a kitty, even though I didn't really really really want one. Just kinda did.
Imagine my surprise when we took ownership of this house, and sitting on the front steps as we walked toward it with our key was a scruffy old black cat with a bloody paw at the end of its right rear leg. It did not look like the shiny black cat from when we viewed the house a month before. It couldn't be. How could someone move out and leave their pet?
You know what...I can't do it now, the story of Homey. It's not even that compelling, and you'd have to know him to love him. I just miss him and Steve knows it and the few friends that took the time to give Homey extra pats know it, but today there's really no one who has the time to share with me what I'm feeling about him. This stay at home mom's husband and friends all work and have other priorities and the other mommies aren't close enough to care. I'm just so sad and with Josephine feeding and falling asleep on my lap right now I can't even weep silently without shaking her awake as my chest heaves and hot tears drip on her plushy blanket. When I said that Josephine had changed my way of being forever, I didn't conceive that it would include the way I mourn.
Homey died Saturday. I'm sorry I didn't give him a better death and I am wracked with sadness - but I can't even cry when the feeling wells up because it upsets Josephine. He is in a bag in my mud room waiting to spend some time in a dear friend's chest freezer until I can bury him in the front garden when the ground thaws. His bag is cold and heavier than I thought; and all I wanted was for him to come back from the vet with some antibiotics or something so that he could have one more summer sleeping on the porch in his little wooden wine box with the sun showing how he's really brown not black. I'm sorry for me that I'm not going to get that, and that he died at the vet's when I wasn't there. And there is just a big I'M SORRY HOMEY coursing through me and pushing the tears out and stuffing my nose and lumping my throat when I think how he should have just died in his sleep under the stairs.
Having a baby changed so many priorities, and it compromised my care of my pet. Our finances are precarious, so I didn't take Homey to the vet at the first sniffle. After my in-laws took him to their vet Thursday and he had to stay, I didn't try to visit him because it was so snowy and cold and it's so hard to get out with the baby. I can't ask them to pay for cremation after all they just put in to him and to help us; those hundreds of dollars could go toward rescuing a live cat anyway. So I have to have him suffer such an indignity as well, spending a few months next to some venison and a frozen turkey so that instead of scattering him I can plant him. I must be satisfied that at least I have him back instead of just having the vet dispose of him. Or is this something to be selfish and sorry for too? That I need to put his body through more, and that it's too late, and I should have just let go completely?
Is it too much to ask of the universe that next time, the right thing to do could be made more clear a little sooner, please?
Sure he was sixteen or seventeen years old, and we gave him three years in a great home after he lost his leg to cancer blah blah blah I know I know I know. It doesn't make me feel better to hear that, kind friends who can't think of much else to say. What I feel is that the quality of his death was affected because I gave in too easily and I compromised my preferences and I chose badly. He was just a stinky-breathed, toothless, drooling, tough, independent, affectionate and grateful old cat and I just liked having him around and I miss him and want to go back in time to last week and have a do-over, please. Because if I don't have to mourn the way I lost him, I don't have to think of how having a baby has also changed me for the worse. It's too expensive a lesson.
Imagine my surprise when we took ownership of this house, and sitting on the front steps as we walked toward it with our key was a scruffy old black cat with a bloody paw at the end of its right rear leg. It did not look like the shiny black cat from when we viewed the house a month before. It couldn't be. How could someone move out and leave their pet?
You know what...I can't do it now, the story of Homey. It's not even that compelling, and you'd have to know him to love him. I just miss him and Steve knows it and the few friends that took the time to give Homey extra pats know it, but today there's really no one who has the time to share with me what I'm feeling about him. This stay at home mom's husband and friends all work and have other priorities and the other mommies aren't close enough to care. I'm just so sad and with Josephine feeding and falling asleep on my lap right now I can't even weep silently without shaking her awake as my chest heaves and hot tears drip on her plushy blanket. When I said that Josephine had changed my way of being forever, I didn't conceive that it would include the way I mourn.
Homey died Saturday. I'm sorry I didn't give him a better death and I am wracked with sadness - but I can't even cry when the feeling wells up because it upsets Josephine. He is in a bag in my mud room waiting to spend some time in a dear friend's chest freezer until I can bury him in the front garden when the ground thaws. His bag is cold and heavier than I thought; and all I wanted was for him to come back from the vet with some antibiotics or something so that he could have one more summer sleeping on the porch in his little wooden wine box with the sun showing how he's really brown not black. I'm sorry for me that I'm not going to get that, and that he died at the vet's when I wasn't there. And there is just a big I'M SORRY HOMEY coursing through me and pushing the tears out and stuffing my nose and lumping my throat when I think how he should have just died in his sleep under the stairs.
Having a baby changed so many priorities, and it compromised my care of my pet. Our finances are precarious, so I didn't take Homey to the vet at the first sniffle. After my in-laws took him to their vet Thursday and he had to stay, I didn't try to visit him because it was so snowy and cold and it's so hard to get out with the baby. I can't ask them to pay for cremation after all they just put in to him and to help us; those hundreds of dollars could go toward rescuing a live cat anyway. So I have to have him suffer such an indignity as well, spending a few months next to some venison and a frozen turkey so that instead of scattering him I can plant him. I must be satisfied that at least I have him back instead of just having the vet dispose of him. Or is this something to be selfish and sorry for too? That I need to put his body through more, and that it's too late, and I should have just let go completely?
Is it too much to ask of the universe that next time, the right thing to do could be made more clear a little sooner, please?
Sure he was sixteen or seventeen years old, and we gave him three years in a great home after he lost his leg to cancer blah blah blah I know I know I know. It doesn't make me feel better to hear that, kind friends who can't think of much else to say. What I feel is that the quality of his death was affected because I gave in too easily and I compromised my preferences and I chose badly. He was just a stinky-breathed, toothless, drooling, tough, independent, affectionate and grateful old cat and I just liked having him around and I miss him and want to go back in time to last week and have a do-over, please. Because if I don't have to mourn the way I lost him, I don't have to think of how having a baby has also changed me for the worse. It's too expensive a lesson.
Tuesday, January 11, 2005
Oh, that darn Beauty!
There's nothing like stepping on a warm greasy squishy thing on the kitchen floor with your socks on to teach your daughter some new cuss words.
Yesterday, while Josephine and I were down in the basement poking Homey with a stick, Beauty, for the first time ever, jumped up on the stove and took a small chicken carcass out of the roasting pan while it was simmering. I stepped on it when I went to get Josephine's sippy cup after coming back upstairs. I've never had to prevent something like this from happening, because I could never conceive that I would own a dog for six real years and two imaginary years who would paint that dire a picture of her circumstances. Then, after dinner, as we were upstairs bathing Josephine and I was telling Steve about the day's events, Beauty was clearing the food off the dinner plates. When I came down with a load of laundry, I was treated to the sight of her eating the two remaining honey garlic sausages out of the cast iron skillet on the stove. Her guilty posture said, "I know it's wrong, but in this case I'll take the spanking."
After inviting Steve to feel her ribs to make sure we're not starving her (we had to find her waist first), and checking her tongue myself to see if we can sell her to the scientists to make some money since it appears she must have some sort of amazing natural heat resistant coating in her mouth, we determined she is just really really really neurotic. I'm attempting to fix it by making sure we both make more of an effort to talk to her more often in extra happy voices, so that maybe it'll seem like more fun to obey. I can't have Josephine going off to Show and Tell in a few years telling people her dog's name is Fuckbeauty.
By the way, Homey is still alive as of ten this morning. Last night he ate half his food and drank some water, as far as I could tell. He was curled up like a baby squirrel in his box under the stairs (instead of on his pink blanket in the laundry room) and I didn't want to disturb him too much because if he dies in that position we don't have to dig quite as big a hole.
Yesterday, while Josephine and I were down in the basement poking Homey with a stick, Beauty, for the first time ever, jumped up on the stove and took a small chicken carcass out of the roasting pan while it was simmering. I stepped on it when I went to get Josephine's sippy cup after coming back upstairs. I've never had to prevent something like this from happening, because I could never conceive that I would own a dog for six real years and two imaginary years who would paint that dire a picture of her circumstances. Then, after dinner, as we were upstairs bathing Josephine and I was telling Steve about the day's events, Beauty was clearing the food off the dinner plates. When I came down with a load of laundry, I was treated to the sight of her eating the two remaining honey garlic sausages out of the cast iron skillet on the stove. Her guilty posture said, "I know it's wrong, but in this case I'll take the spanking."
After inviting Steve to feel her ribs to make sure we're not starving her (we had to find her waist first), and checking her tongue myself to see if we can sell her to the scientists to make some money since it appears she must have some sort of amazing natural heat resistant coating in her mouth, we determined she is just really really really neurotic. I'm attempting to fix it by making sure we both make more of an effort to talk to her more often in extra happy voices, so that maybe it'll seem like more fun to obey. I can't have Josephine going off to Show and Tell in a few years telling people her dog's name is Fuckbeauty.
By the way, Homey is still alive as of ten this morning. Last night he ate half his food and drank some water, as far as I could tell. He was curled up like a baby squirrel in his box under the stairs (instead of on his pink blanket in the laundry room) and I didn't want to disturb him too much because if he dies in that position we don't have to dig quite as big a hole.
Saturday, January 08, 2005
Number Two With a Bullet...
I love Beauty. Really Really Really. Although lately I have to keep telling myself this. There was a point during my pregnancy with Josephine where I thought that I might have a hard time bonding with my baby because how could I love anyone or anything more than my dog? (Steve included!) (Really - he said at the time he knew that he just dropped to number three.) Sadly, the fact that we just discovered that we have been miscalculating her age by over two years is just another factor in the new-parents-with-former-child-surrogate-now-dog equation. Yes, you heard right. For almost two years we have been telling people that she looks good for about ten or eleven years old. It turns out, she doesn't look so good for maybe seven.
On the day I left for the hospital to give birth to Josephine, we took pictures of the house and suitcases and the snowy day and of Beauty and Homey. Looking back over the photos, since IPhoto shows them in a series of a twelve-month period as an option (it was sad to see Christmas 2004 just not come up anymore), the image of Beauty that day is of a hopeful, svelte, shiny black Rottweiller (cowering beneath my stomach). Homey is basking in a sunbeam on his chair in the dining room during the period where we were waiting over forty minutes for a cab, right before we had to walk my really really pregnant and leaking and cramping ass two blocks away to Queen Street to hail one. That was, after the cab we called drove right by the house with the really really pregnant and leaking and cramping pregnant woman with suitcases standing on the porch. Twice.
So, as part of the New Year's tidy up around here, Steve went through his dresser and came across his 1998 journal. He found a mention therein of my adopting Beauty that January. OOPS! The SPCA in Buffalo had assumed she was between a year and two years old when I adopted her. She was starving (60 pounds!) (Which is why when she begs for food I tell her I've seen her thirty pounds lighter and still living.) and had worms and had had a litter at some point. Somehow, in the intervening years, maybe from looking at her papers which I think have 1996 written on them somewhere, I got to thinking that was when I got her. Never mind that 1996 doesn't coincide with the rest of my timeline with Steve. Remembering the past, in terms of dates, has always been difficult for me. My memories are usually of a few salient, life-changing events surrounded by nebulous circumstances. The dates aren't always important - what happened is. That's why Steve is our family's memory. He journals, and writes things down in his daybooks and keeps them. And he just plain remembers. Good for us, good for him and good for me - it all works. But for Beauty, not so much. He aided and abetted me in this misconception, and I can see exactly why. Because here she is all gray under the chin and in a few other places. At the park, she no longer gets questions about how old the puppy is. Nope, it's "How is the old girl these days?". Josephine has been hard on all of us, but especially Beauty. Steve can blame me and Josie and Rock and Roll and genetics for his looks. I can blame Josie for finally looking my age (although, apparently my voice still sounds like a twelve year old boy's. But in my head, I sound like Lauren Bacall!) A few years ago, a kid at the park said to me, "I thought you were a teenager until I looked at you up close!". I don't even get that any more. But here we were congratulating ourselves on having a dignified old girl who is doing the best she can with all of these changes...and it turns out that we have a prematurely senile eight or nine year old. Like I said: OOPS! And for the record, we aren't buying cat food in cases any longer. Homey has taken to staying in his basement lair and no longer comes up for meals or to hang out on the porch. He doesn't eat much, he's lost a lot of weight, and has finally started showing his approximate age of about fifteen or more. Steve's already suggested I say anything I have to say to him and I do supppose I should save my next shoebox.
One of things about Beauty that's escalated in its intensity since Josephine was born is her food issues. She's always been a beggar. She has, in the past, guarded a piece of cheese in my coat pocket for an entire day with no breaks. She hides food, she steals food from other dogs when we visit, and aside from a certain brand of really expensive shortbread cookies, and grapes, eats everything and anything. The sight of our formerly majestic beast hunkering down under Josie's high chair, her back littered with dropped bits of avocado and cottage cheese, makes Steve and I call her names that Josie really shouldn't learn. There has never been a day in the years that I have had her where she has not had a meal, or two or three. Okay, some days, especially since the baby came, they're meals of leftover spaghetti. For years I made her a raw food diet. Or we bought custom made really expensive pre-made raw food meals. Of course she always preferred to eat cat poo (anyone's) or cat food (specifically Homey's). Some days she couldn't wait for Homey to finish his meal so that she could lick the bowl and so our kitchen floor shows the claw marks from the spats over what was not even one mouthful of some godawful tuna flavoured crap. She has sampled every treat in the book, and she gets lots and lots of human food too. But the other day, she pushed every last button in my speed dial of hates.
I needed a snack, to replenish the nutrients Josephine sucks out of me and mostly because I remembered we had nachos, cheese and salsa. (Later insertion: *For the record, Steve wants it noted that he did not know about the nachos at the time. But I justify this by saying that most times I share food equally with him unless I feel that I really need the extra bits to sustain our baby. Except that I always take more bacon.) Beauty, who can tell when I'm even just thinking about going into the kitchen, actually got up and followed me in this time because she could tell with her seventh sense that I was going to make food. Food that she might actually get to eat some of, I must qualify, because in her recent exploration of new depths in laziness she will often just wait until I bring it to the living room and save herself a trip. So, I gave her some of the cheese I was grating. Remember this! I took cheese out of my own mouth, so to speak, and also I was careful to leave enough for Josie the next day, and gave it to Beauty. Then, I put the cheese on the Charros jalapeno tortilla chips. I gave Beauty some of the broken chips from the bag. Both of these things she ate immediately and without complaint. She even waited for more. However, the few minutes while they were in the broiler was too long for her to wait on the hard, chilly floor of the kitchen when more wasn't forthcoming immediately, so she returned to her spot on the living room carpet. Although, she did position herself so she could keep one eye cracked open in the direction of where I might be eating in a minute and the other towards the kitchen in case I did indeed have more raw ingredients for her.
When I brought my toasty warm gooey nachos and cheese and salsa for dipping back in with me (*for the record, Steve calls bullshit on the nutritional value claims I make whereas I see vegetables, protein and other heatlthy stuff), Beauty sat by my knee so close I could feel her hot steamy breath and could feel begging waves coming over my lap toward my food from her. About halfway through the batch, I offered her a piece. With cheese - not just a dry slightly burned edge, which I know other dogs would be grateful for. Warm, but not too hot and certainly not yet cold. And do you know what she did? She sniffed it before deciding to eat it. PISSED. ME. OFF. I mean, with the forty thousand million scent sensors in a dogs nose, don't TELL me she didn't know exactly what I was giving her. She had just followed me into the kitchen and watched me make them, and I fed her the actual ingredients. Don't tell me she didn't know that I was handing her a nice piece of nacho chip with melted cheddar cheese on it because SHE KNEW. She was just sitting there for five minutes (okay, three because I was eating them fast) begging me for that very bite. This is the type of post-baby ungrateful behaviour that I can. not. stand. I know she doesn't get as much attention. I know that her meals are not scheduled as they used to be, and that sometimes she has to wait a bit before I'm in a position to let her out. But that does not mean that she has to sniff the food I am giving to her instead of putting it in my own mouth and check my face balefully for a second before deciding that I'm probably not going to poison her this time and so she should eat it. Reluctantly. And then she continued begging for more. Do you think she got any? I even licked the plate so she couldn't smell the empty plate or nose around for a crumb of that snack, I tell you.
BUT...and here's the kicker...yesterday Steve passed me a baby who really needed a bath after a meal punctuated by what is probably a law of phsysics, and I heard him yell at Beauty to "AAAAGH! STOP THAT! EEEUWAAAGH!" in a tone that means Steve is really, really unhappy with what is happening and it needs to stop forthwith. That, by the way, is not one of the usual commands we use, so I realized that it was something so bad that he was talking to her like a human and not using the vocabulary her walnut-sized brain could handle. Yes, she was eating the poo from Josephine's diaper. (And since new parenthood is all about poo, we're just happy that we're back to actual turds and not the Christmas time diarrhea we were experiencing.) Yes, the dog that had very recently momentarily questioned eating a lovingly prepared nacho was happily, eagerly and heartily enjoying my daughter's poop without hesitation. (*For the record, Steve wants it known that we do not hardly ever leave diapers lying around open. This one was just particularly nasty so he just wanted to pass Josephine to me as quickly as possible while I was in the shower.)
Please remind me how much I love my dog. Because I know I do and I want to get over this. And you know what - I just remembered that we have more cheese now and I'm off to make nachos. And you know what Beauty? They's mine - Not Yo's! That and I'm going to go down the basement with the a little mirror and check on the good pet.
On the day I left for the hospital to give birth to Josephine, we took pictures of the house and suitcases and the snowy day and of Beauty and Homey. Looking back over the photos, since IPhoto shows them in a series of a twelve-month period as an option (it was sad to see Christmas 2004 just not come up anymore), the image of Beauty that day is of a hopeful, svelte, shiny black Rottweiller (cowering beneath my stomach). Homey is basking in a sunbeam on his chair in the dining room during the period where we were waiting over forty minutes for a cab, right before we had to walk my really really pregnant and leaking and cramping ass two blocks away to Queen Street to hail one. That was, after the cab we called drove right by the house with the really really pregnant and leaking and cramping pregnant woman with suitcases standing on the porch. Twice.
So, as part of the New Year's tidy up around here, Steve went through his dresser and came across his 1998 journal. He found a mention therein of my adopting Beauty that January. OOPS! The SPCA in Buffalo had assumed she was between a year and two years old when I adopted her. She was starving (60 pounds!) (Which is why when she begs for food I tell her I've seen her thirty pounds lighter and still living.) and had worms and had had a litter at some point. Somehow, in the intervening years, maybe from looking at her papers which I think have 1996 written on them somewhere, I got to thinking that was when I got her. Never mind that 1996 doesn't coincide with the rest of my timeline with Steve. Remembering the past, in terms of dates, has always been difficult for me. My memories are usually of a few salient, life-changing events surrounded by nebulous circumstances. The dates aren't always important - what happened is. That's why Steve is our family's memory. He journals, and writes things down in his daybooks and keeps them. And he just plain remembers. Good for us, good for him and good for me - it all works. But for Beauty, not so much. He aided and abetted me in this misconception, and I can see exactly why. Because here she is all gray under the chin and in a few other places. At the park, she no longer gets questions about how old the puppy is. Nope, it's "How is the old girl these days?". Josephine has been hard on all of us, but especially Beauty. Steve can blame me and Josie and Rock and Roll and genetics for his looks. I can blame Josie for finally looking my age (although, apparently my voice still sounds like a twelve year old boy's. But in my head, I sound like Lauren Bacall!) A few years ago, a kid at the park said to me, "I thought you were a teenager until I looked at you up close!". I don't even get that any more. But here we were congratulating ourselves on having a dignified old girl who is doing the best she can with all of these changes...and it turns out that we have a prematurely senile eight or nine year old. Like I said: OOPS! And for the record, we aren't buying cat food in cases any longer. Homey has taken to staying in his basement lair and no longer comes up for meals or to hang out on the porch. He doesn't eat much, he's lost a lot of weight, and has finally started showing his approximate age of about fifteen or more. Steve's already suggested I say anything I have to say to him and I do supppose I should save my next shoebox.
One of things about Beauty that's escalated in its intensity since Josephine was born is her food issues. She's always been a beggar. She has, in the past, guarded a piece of cheese in my coat pocket for an entire day with no breaks. She hides food, she steals food from other dogs when we visit, and aside from a certain brand of really expensive shortbread cookies, and grapes, eats everything and anything. The sight of our formerly majestic beast hunkering down under Josie's high chair, her back littered with dropped bits of avocado and cottage cheese, makes Steve and I call her names that Josie really shouldn't learn. There has never been a day in the years that I have had her where she has not had a meal, or two or three. Okay, some days, especially since the baby came, they're meals of leftover spaghetti. For years I made her a raw food diet. Or we bought custom made really expensive pre-made raw food meals. Of course she always preferred to eat cat poo (anyone's) or cat food (specifically Homey's). Some days she couldn't wait for Homey to finish his meal so that she could lick the bowl and so our kitchen floor shows the claw marks from the spats over what was not even one mouthful of some godawful tuna flavoured crap. She has sampled every treat in the book, and she gets lots and lots of human food too. But the other day, she pushed every last button in my speed dial of hates.
I needed a snack, to replenish the nutrients Josephine sucks out of me and mostly because I remembered we had nachos, cheese and salsa. (Later insertion: *For the record, Steve wants it noted that he did not know about the nachos at the time. But I justify this by saying that most times I share food equally with him unless I feel that I really need the extra bits to sustain our baby. Except that I always take more bacon.) Beauty, who can tell when I'm even just thinking about going into the kitchen, actually got up and followed me in this time because she could tell with her seventh sense that I was going to make food. Food that she might actually get to eat some of, I must qualify, because in her recent exploration of new depths in laziness she will often just wait until I bring it to the living room and save herself a trip. So, I gave her some of the cheese I was grating. Remember this! I took cheese out of my own mouth, so to speak, and also I was careful to leave enough for Josie the next day, and gave it to Beauty. Then, I put the cheese on the Charros jalapeno tortilla chips. I gave Beauty some of the broken chips from the bag. Both of these things she ate immediately and without complaint. She even waited for more. However, the few minutes while they were in the broiler was too long for her to wait on the hard, chilly floor of the kitchen when more wasn't forthcoming immediately, so she returned to her spot on the living room carpet. Although, she did position herself so she could keep one eye cracked open in the direction of where I might be eating in a minute and the other towards the kitchen in case I did indeed have more raw ingredients for her.
When I brought my toasty warm gooey nachos and cheese and salsa for dipping back in with me (*for the record, Steve calls bullshit on the nutritional value claims I make whereas I see vegetables, protein and other heatlthy stuff), Beauty sat by my knee so close I could feel her hot steamy breath and could feel begging waves coming over my lap toward my food from her. About halfway through the batch, I offered her a piece. With cheese - not just a dry slightly burned edge, which I know other dogs would be grateful for. Warm, but not too hot and certainly not yet cold. And do you know what she did? She sniffed it before deciding to eat it. PISSED. ME. OFF. I mean, with the forty thousand million scent sensors in a dogs nose, don't TELL me she didn't know exactly what I was giving her. She had just followed me into the kitchen and watched me make them, and I fed her the actual ingredients. Don't tell me she didn't know that I was handing her a nice piece of nacho chip with melted cheddar cheese on it because SHE KNEW. She was just sitting there for five minutes (okay, three because I was eating them fast) begging me for that very bite. This is the type of post-baby ungrateful behaviour that I can. not. stand. I know she doesn't get as much attention. I know that her meals are not scheduled as they used to be, and that sometimes she has to wait a bit before I'm in a position to let her out. But that does not mean that she has to sniff the food I am giving to her instead of putting it in my own mouth and check my face balefully for a second before deciding that I'm probably not going to poison her this time and so she should eat it. Reluctantly. And then she continued begging for more. Do you think she got any? I even licked the plate so she couldn't smell the empty plate or nose around for a crumb of that snack, I tell you.
BUT...and here's the kicker...yesterday Steve passed me a baby who really needed a bath after a meal punctuated by what is probably a law of phsysics, and I heard him yell at Beauty to "AAAAGH! STOP THAT! EEEUWAAAGH!" in a tone that means Steve is really, really unhappy with what is happening and it needs to stop forthwith. That, by the way, is not one of the usual commands we use, so I realized that it was something so bad that he was talking to her like a human and not using the vocabulary her walnut-sized brain could handle. Yes, she was eating the poo from Josephine's diaper. (And since new parenthood is all about poo, we're just happy that we're back to actual turds and not the Christmas time diarrhea we were experiencing.) Yes, the dog that had very recently momentarily questioned eating a lovingly prepared nacho was happily, eagerly and heartily enjoying my daughter's poop without hesitation. (*For the record, Steve wants it known that we do not hardly ever leave diapers lying around open. This one was just particularly nasty so he just wanted to pass Josephine to me as quickly as possible while I was in the shower.)
Please remind me how much I love my dog. Because I know I do and I want to get over this. And you know what - I just remembered that we have more cheese now and I'm off to make nachos. And you know what Beauty? They's mine - Not Yo's! That and I'm going to go down the basement with the a little mirror and check on the good pet.
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