So here’s to you, Pearl and St. Arnold.  I know that I don’t say it often, because you are, say, licking my children in the mouth, or chewing up the brand new bed that I bought you, or vomiting on the rug, or running out the front door as I shout obscenities behind you, or pooping on the floor when it is wet outside, or eating the food off of Bailey’s walker tray, or barking like a maniac for no gosh darn reason and always during nap time, or refusing to just get out of my face for one stinking second whenever I sit on the floor, or (my personal fave) depositing multiple, pulpy bird corpses in the middle of the living room….  But in this moment, in this briefest of moments, as you sleep here at my feet, curled up together in a ball of fuzzy cuteness, I will go on the record and say,

“Good dogs”.

I realized it was happening a bit too frequently when the other day I heard Parker growl, “Oh, damnit, dogs!!” as their tails disappeared from view.  (seriously, where does he pick up such language? ) 

And really, what’s a girl to do?  Not like I can chase their sorry hides down the road with two kiddos in tow.  I just have to sit and wait (in seething anger, mind you) for that most awkward phone call that always goes a little something like this:

-hello?

-ummm…yeah, I think I have your dogs?  

(this is the part where I have to fein joy and relief that the precious missing pups have been found)

-oh THANK you!  I just don’t know how they got out!  This NEVER happens!  blah-dy, blah, blah…gush, apologize, repeat.

Then, it is time to make the arrangement to get the dogs back home, which inevitably happens at the most inconvenient time possible.  

Frustrating.  
Maddening.

And alas, an almost daily occurrence.  Sigh. 

Yes, her smile is mocking me.

“How ’bout you stop laughing and help a guy out?”