OH how my blood boils when my Pearl and St. Arnold bolt out my front door! Just ask anyone who is unfortunate enough to bear witness to the event as it unfolds. I can go from all sparkles and sunshine to pure venom and daggers in 3 seconds flat…the exact time it takes for those two ding-bats to nose their way around my maniacally kicking leg and gallop triumphantly into the suburban abyss that lies beyond our cul-de-sac. JERKS!
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.
