Yesterday when the snow was still falling hard and swift, I warmed up the house by making a large pot of Irish Stout Beef Stew. Although I frequently make soups, I have always shied away from stew for fear it could never compete with the bowl I ate in Doolin, County Clare, Ireland the night after hiking the Burren to The Cliffs of Moher. However, each time the chill sets into my bones the way it did on that evening of my memory, I get inspired. And I just happened to be in luck yesterday, as I had all the ingredients I needed.
Open spice cabinet. Open random jars. Sprinkle contents into pot.
Pour in ¼ bottle of homemade Chardonnay.
Add ¾ can of Murphy’s Irish Stout (or any kind of stout that makes your eyes light up and your stomach say “Howdy”)
Let simmer.
Serve with doorstop-sized chunks of bread and stout (milk for the lightweights).
Suggested post-meal instructions: ask your significant other to do the dishes while you crawl to the nearest couch or bed and nap off your food-induced coma.
I recently read that if dogs kept diaries, each entry would likely read something like this:
(Month Day, Year)
7:30 am: Oh Boy! Morning! My favorite!
8:00 am: Oh boy! Dog Food! My favorite!
8:15 am: Oh boy! A walk! My favorite!
9:00 am: Oh boy! Water! My favorite!
10:00 am: Oh boy! A nap! My favorite!
12:00 pm: Oh boy! A run in the yard! My favorite!
*****
Late last night, my sister Tara and I texted back and forth, attempting to quell one another’s excitement over an impending snow day. There’s nothing worse, after all, than laying your head down on the pillow at 11:30pm thinking you’ll awaken to a world covered in a deep coating of snow, yet opening your eyes six hours later, only to realize that the weatherman’s predictions were off by enough inches to steal the snow day that was so close within reach.
Thus, when I woke this morning to the winter wonderland that had swirled through my dreams, crawled to my computer to read with blurry eyes a posting on the college website that read: “Classes cancelled until 11:50,” I got so happy that if I were a dog, my tail would have wagged furiously for hours.
The rest of my day went something like this:
February 24, 2010
6:30 am: Oh boy! A snow day! My favorite!
6:35 am: Oh boy! Climbing back into my warm bed! My favorite!
9:45 am: Oh boy! Waking up the electrifying din of snow blowers! My favorite!
9:50 am: Oh boy! Putting on eight layers of clothes! My favorite!
10:00 am: Oh boy! Shoveling snow on a beautiful winter morning! My favorite!
10:45 am: Oh boy! Taking a walk with Marty and Joey! My favorite!
11:30 am: Oh boy! Returning to my warm home! My favorite!
11:45 am: Oh boy! Changing into dry, comfy clothes! My favorite!
12:00 pm: Oh boy! Hot coffee! My favorite!
12:30 pm: Oh Boy! Making Irish Stout Beef Stew! My favorite
1:30 pm: Oh boy! Reading a book while cuddled on the couch with Joey! My favorite!
2:45 pm: Oh boy! Eating Irish Stout Beef Stew for lunch! My favorite!
3:30 pm: Oh boy! Watching a movie and cuddling on the couch with the whole fam! My favorite!
11:00 pm: Oh boy! Getting ready for bed after a long day filled with plenty of R&R! My favorite!
MARTY AND JOEY TRUDGE THROUGH SLUSHY SNOW AND DENSE FLAKES
When I was very little and lived each day surrounded by three siblings and a house full of my mother’s babysitting kids, there was nothing I loved more than the sound of my mom’s stern voice calling out my name. On hot summer mornings while running through the backyard on bare feet, the echo of “Carrie, git in here right now!” would send me flying faster than my legs could carry me to where she was. You see, I could always hear that certain something in my mother’s voice that told me I wasn’t in trouble. Instead, the second my butt would clear the door frame, she’d be standing there with a plate of warm cookies, or a cool ice cream shake. She’d slide the treat into my hands and say, “Quick, go to your room. Don’t let the other kids see.” I’d race to my room and perch on the edge of my unmade bed, devouring the treat she saved just for me.
On my way back through the kitchen with the plate licked clean of evidence or the empty icy glass, she’d take the item from my hands, and say, “I didn’t have enough to go ‘round. Pretend I called you in ‘cause you got in trouble.”
My mom loved me, and she learned from her mother, who probably learned from her mother, to show her love in food. And she did it oh so well.
With a heart and belly full of love, I’d smile knowingly and go back out to play.
But that’s not where it ended. As the years continued, my mother’s soul food just kept coming:
In elementary school she never sent us to school on our birthdays without a treat to share.
When each of her four children hit the fifth grade, she was the head chef at Lawson Lake – an outdoor education facility where each fifth grade class spent a week at the close of the school year. My mom single-handedly planned the menu, did all the shopping, cooked every last morsel of food, and served every one of the 75-100 fifth graders who walked through the line for breakfast, lunch, and dinner for an entire week.
She led every cooking project completed by Girl Scout Troop 233, and did every bit of menu planning and shopping for each of the Father-Daughter Campouts we went on from kindergarten to twelfth grade.
In high school she’d send me to school with a dozen apples, a slicer, and a tub of caramel dip to share with my table of friends at lunch.
In tenth grade, she threw a homecoming after-party fit for Hollywood VIP. She served chicken tenders, cheese and crackers, mini hot dogs, and Cara Defino’s favorite: star fruit!
The summer after my senior year, she became famous among my group of friends when she sent me to a barbeque with homemade coleslaw. When I arrived, and pried back the lid of the Tupperware to reveal her creation, my friend Ben exclaimed, “Wow, your mom’s so cool, she even garnished the coleslaw.” Sure enough, sitting atop the coleslaw were garden-fresh chives, purple bud and all.
When I was in college, she packed up an entire pizza dinner kit and sent it down for my friends to throw me a birthday party in the dorms – it was complete with pre-formed pizza dough, sauce, cheese, pizza toppings, soda, dessert, plates, napkins, utensils, and even streamers for them to decorate the room.
Once after college, while lounging by my parents’ pool with a friend, my mom came out with a tray overflowing with chicken fingers, onion rings, mozzarella sticks, French fries, and every flavor of dipping sauce known to man: barbeque, honey mustard, marinara, sweet and sour...
…But one of the most unforgettable memories occurred one winter night when I was home on break from grad school. I distinctly recall that a much younger version of the Marty I know now had broken my heart so badly that my chest literally ached for days. Whatever he did couldn’t have been all that bad, as I wouldn’t be able to recall it now if my life or his depended on it. With no job to go to and no school work to be done, I moped around my parents’ house for days. I didn’t want to talk, felt too sick to my stomach to go out with friends, and only interrupted the monotony of each day with a shower and a change into a clean set of pajamas. One night, while I was sitting on my twin bed in my childhood bedroom feeling sorry for myself, my mom quietly entered carrying a glass of white wine on ice and a plate of cheese and crackers. Without a word, she set the plate on the table beside my bed, gave me a knowing look and retreated from the room. As soon as the latch of the door clicked closed, the tears poured from my eyes. I ate that whole plate of cheese and crackers, and swallowed down sobs along with it. I cried in gratitude for my momma’s love, and lamented the thought that no one, no one would ever love me like my momma does. I knew that she knew she couldn’t fix my broken heart, but she would do the best she could by feeding my soul through my belly.
A decade passes and brings me to tonight.
I had planned to see my sister Meghan this evening, but poor planning and poor weather prevented that from happening, leaving me with a twinge of a broken heart. While tucked away in my office grading papers and planning for my morning classes, Marty quietly entered carrying a glass of white wine on ice and a plate of cheese and crackers. Without a word, he set the plate on the desk beside me, gave me a knowing look and retreated from the room.
As the latch of the door clicked closed, years and years of my mother’s soul food coalesced on my tongue. I remembered the night I cried when I realized that no one would ever love me the way my mother does. And as I ate my plate of cheese and crackers, I swallowed down sobs along with it, thankful that that guy who broke my heart all those years ago has come to realize that I measure love with food, and that a plate of cheese and crackers will always be the best way to feed my hungry heart.
Yesterday my mom, my sister Tara, and I threw a surprise “babies shower” at my house for my sister Meghan, who is expecting my twin nephews: Lincoln and McCann, or Linkie and Mac-doe as they will be known by their Auntie Carrie.
After the guests went home, we got camera-happy and a pregnant “photo shoot” ensued.
Although the following photos capture a tender and contemplative expectant mother, the moments behind the camera tell a rowdier story – one that was filled with moments of downright raw crudity and merriment only shared between mothers, daughters, and sisters, as well as many instances of cross-your-legs-to-keep-yourself-from-peeing-your-pants laughter. Long after they packed up the gifts and party supplies and headed home, my house was filled with the echoes of our residual laughter.
Enjoy the glow.
-double click on each photo to view a larger version-
Any person who has ever wiled away more than fifteen minutes of his life watching one of these infomercials recognizes they're a genre all their own. The cheesy one liners; the over enthusiastic, exaggeratedly animated “friends” who spontaneously pop onto set to sample Ron’s creations; the “all time low price” that flashes across the screen; the justification that everyone can afford said product due to the three month easy payment plan; the plea to “call now for this one time offer"; the live audience viewers who ooooh and ahhhh and wow at each new fascinating perk the product has to offer. All facets sucked us in so powerfully that not even my mother asking us to lift our feet as she vacuumed around us and intermittently blocked our view of the TV could distract us from melting into Ron’s coercive spiel.
Two months ago, while our running errands for the house, I casually passed an end-cap display of roughly thirty 5 Tray Electric Food Dehydrators and I stopped dead in my tracks. My eyes glassed over as they had as I sat before the TV on those Sunday afternoons, and I knew that I would be taking one home with me. My intentions were true: furnish Martyn with a “sensible” Valentine’s Day gift that would offer us “endless hours of fun in the kitchen”, as well as some healthy, snacky treats to bring along on camping trips and summer hikes. However, as the box slid over the barcode scanner and the satisfying “beep” of purchase entry met my ears, I couldn’t help but feel giddy that for only $24.99, yes $24.99, ladies and gentlemen, the 5 Tray Electric Food Dehydrator was mine for just one easy payment.
Before I left for class on Friday morning, Martyn asked what time I planned to return home. “By 12:00,” I casually replied as I walked out the door. Three hours and forty five minutes later, I arrived home to find flowers on the doorstep. Although my name was clearly plastered across the front of the box, stupid me assumed Mart didn’t want me to see them and intended to intercept the flowers and furnish them on Valentine’s Day (that’s what he did last year). I stepped over the box, went inside, and continued on with my day. Four hours later, I received a text from Marty:
“Are you home?
“Yes,” I texted back
“Did you get your flowers?”
“I thought I wasn’t supposed to see them. Was I?? I left them outside.”
“Oh no! Bring them in! They’ll be cold!”
“I’m an idiot.”
After sitting outside in the freezing cold for more than five hours, the flowers were brought in and unveiled: tulips and daffodils. Beautiful. But not without a chip on their stems as a result of my neglect. To my dismay, I propped them up in the vase, and as I stood back and smiled, they literally flopped over before my eyes.
What was I thinking??
Although they took some time (more than twenty four hours), and some coaxing, they eventually got over their extended stay in the cold and found their life again.
____________________
On Saturday morning Martyn woke up with the sun and headed out to play in a ten hour Frisbee golf tournament. I am still struggling to understand how this game can be great enough to keep someone outside in twenty five degree weather until the fading sun forces him home, but I am happy to report that I used my quiet time wisely by finally making use of the gift card Mart gave me last V-Day for the spa.
Why did it take me a year to get around to being pampered? I don’t know, I am just weird like that; I kept postponing its redemption, thinking that I had to enjoy my first real spa treatment on a day when I had absolutely no responsibilities to distract from feeling relaxed. As I sat there with the gift card in one hand and my phone in the other, about to call schedule an appointment, I was tempted still to put it off for a time when I “really needed it.” Yes, I am that person who doesn’t burn certain candles, and won’t let Marty dry his hands on the guest towels. “Live a little,” I said to myself as I dialed the number.
An hour later, I was fighting off the guilt I was feeling for skipping the gym; nonetheless, I took an extra long shower, shaved my legs, got dressed, and headed out to enjoy my “Afternoon Delight” spa package. I don’t know what compelled me to actually shave my legs on that particular day…maybe the warmth of the shower’s steam beckoned me to find an excuse to prolong my routine, but within the hour I was thanking myself for doing so. The spa package was labeled as a including a manicure, paraffin dip, and facial… but, oh, it was so much more! I was informed upon arrival that I would be enjoying a full two hour treatment that also included a neck and shoulder massage, along with a foot soak followed by a forty five minute foot and leg massage. As I was led into a dimly lit room and asked to remove my clothes and change into the neatly folded robe sitting on the table before me, the familiar inquiry made popular some years ago by Deana Carter reverberated through my mind. And, just as I reached down to rub against the grain to check my work, I nearly hummed the tune out loud: “Did I shave my legs for this?”
I know, I am classless and not cut out for the spa, but, hey, for two hours of shear indulgence I can pretend I am.
VALENTINE'S DAY BREAKFAST
As for Sunday, it was as my high school gym teacher used say, “A great day to be alive.” Although I’ve never been a big Valentine’s Day kind of a girl, Marty went big last year and I wanted to ensure that he wouldn’t outdo me this time around. For weeks I have been collecting small gifts here and there while out shopping, and I was feeling quite proud that I would be able to put forth fair representation.
My confidence was further elevated last Wednesday when I returned home from work to find his car absent from the driveway. When I called to see where he was, he said he was shopping, and he had that 'don’t ask any more questions' tone in his voice.
“Is this for Valentine’s Day?” I asked, “because I don’t want this to be a repeat of last Valentine’s Day or Christmas when you totally outdid me. Can we please establish a price limit?”
“Twenty dollars,” he said hastily as he rushed off the phone.
I’m golden, I thought. I have that beat by at least one Ulysses S. Grant.
Alas, I missed the mark yet again. On Sunday after breakfast, he presented me with a large bag. He gave me a huge smile as he handed it to me and goofily said, “This is just a token of my love for you.” I opened it to reveal...an antibacterial mattress cover. Wait, huh? An antibacterial mattress cover?
“Um, what’s this for?” I asked.
“For the new bed that’s being delivered on Tuesday.”
[Arrow straight through heart]
Turns out the man can’t be trusted to keep his word. I know the real girly-girls out there would look at me with one eyebrow raised and ask, “So what did you do next? Cry? I mean, he got you a bed? That’s romantic??” But this is the girl who was just twenty four hours clear from losing her spa virginity. I am no girly-girl, and as I sat there with the mattress cover in hand, the tears came to my eyes as I reflected upon my rude awakening a few days prior when Marty sat down to file our taxes…
He filed his first, claiming the house, and we realized we would be getting nearly $3000 in returns. We had been talking about getting a mattress for weeks. Ours is a fifteen year old hand-me-down from his parents and has been causing unbearable nights of tossing and turning, and many achy, cranky mornings. So, it was decided: we would each use part of our portion of the return and go out in search of a bed the following week.
Marty filed my taxes next. I was upstairs folding laundry when I heard him say, “Uh… babe, I have some bad news. You owe the feds $1,800.” As I braced myself for the mental pain of signing a check to the government, which I knew would end up being spent on weapons, pre and post-natal care for pregnant teen moms, or in some system-reliant drug addict’s pocket until his next fix, I called back downstairs, with obvious melancholy in my voice: “I guess the mattress is going to have to wait.”
Sometimes the most romantic thing someone can do for you is prove you wrong.
TAO, JOEY, AND MARTY ENJOY A MID-AFTERNOON SNOOZE
The rest of the day was spent napping with the girls, and doing odd jobs around the house. Little did I know that I was to be outshined yet again when Marty capped off the evening with a meal fit for a queen: steak, pan-fried asparagus in olive oil and garlic, rosemary potatoes, salad, French bread, and Chilean Merlot.
There's nothing sexier than a cute guy in jeans and a T-shirt cooking in his own kitchen
We are happy to announce that we recently completed our renovation of the final room of our house: the upstairs bathroom.
I will let the pictures tell the story.
The "Before"
The "After"
And the journey of a thousand hammer strokes in between:
DEMO
RECON
TILING
...and at long last...FINITO!
It’s been a pleasure waking in the night with a full bladder and being able to walk, with eyes half closed, to the bathroom to pee. Just the thought of the cold, dark journey down two flights of stairs to the first floor bathroom was enough to make you lay awake in pain, holding it until morning. (Thanks handyman!)
Marty and I once read on the German Shorthaired Forum website that just before a GSP crashes from fatigue, she will happily run circles around the house, colliding into hard objects and gleefully rubbing her head against any soft surface within range: couches, rugs, people. GSP enthusiasts call this “The Zoomies”.
We have a big time case of The Zoomies today.
On December 6th, we were enjoying a standard Sunday afternoon at home. I was picking up the house and Marty was hanging out downstairs, watching TV and keeping Tao and Joey content with their daily dose of love and attention. At one point, Joey came to the top of the stairs and let out her usual “please let me outside” cry. I did as she instructed; she did her business, ran a few laps around the yard, and came back inside. While making a beeline back down the stairs to return to her warm spot on the couch beside Marty, she clumsily tumbled off the last stair. Although this was typical for her (she was four months old at the time), the thud we heard when she stumbled was followed by a loud, extended yelp and then a sad whimper. She jumped to her feet but we noticed, as she ran to Marty for comfort, that she wasn’t using her front right leg. We were concerned, but thought “Eh, no big deal.” We were under the impression that our perfect pup was invincible. We had noted her robustness numerous times as she soared off the edge of the sand dunes at the golf course where we take her on runs, or passed hours at the dog park getting pummeled, nipped, and badgered by larger, more aggressive dogs. “How could a tiny fall do any damage?” we asked each other.
Famous last words…
Four days, four vets, and four hundred dollars later, we were standing in Dr. Cherry’s office at Shaker Veterinary Hospital in Latham. He took one look at the x-rays that had been taken at the first vet we visited, looked us confidently in the eye and told us she had fractured a bone near the growth plate at her wrist joint and that she would need to be casted for four to six weeks. We were grateful to finally receive this news from a doctor who expressed an authentic interest in our pup and her well being, and who appeared committed to seeing her through her healing process. More importantly, however, we were delighted to be in the presence of a vet whose confidence in his assessment was apparent and who, in turn, gave us confidence in him.
Now, to go into the full explanation about why we were so grateful to find Dr. Cherry would be lengthy and exhausting. However, I would like to take the opportunity to advise others, at all cost, to avoid seeking care from Dr. Loree at Normanside Veterinary Clinic in Albany, or Dr. Bowersox at Veterinary Specialties in Pattersonville.
Dr. Loree was the first vet we visited. Long story short: she offered us about as much information as we could have gleaned from a crappy, amateur website about canine breaks. We were fit to be tied when she excused herself from the exam room and then returned ten minutes later carrying a veterinary textbook from which she read a passage about canine joint breaks, and then looked at our faces, which were plastered with distress and said, “So, what do you think we should do?”
We paid $220 for her to ask US what WE should do!?!?!?
As for Dr. Bowersox – the man is a lunatic. He is away on a power trip and isn’t catching a return flight any time soon. We had been referred to him by the second vet, Dr. Lapos, at Parkside Veterinary Hospital (great, but pricey), who re-splinted Joey’s leg and suggested we see an orthopedic vet for more insight. After driving an hour out to Pattersonville, and then waiting twenty five minutes to be seen, Dr. Bowersox strolled into the exam room and gruffly began to question us on the history of Joey’s injury. He didn’t introduce himself, make eye contact with us, shake our hands, or even acknowledge Joey’s existence. And it was clear from the start that he made her nervous. When the poor thing finally worked up the courage to approach him, she offered him a hello lick to which he responded by clamping down hard on her muzzle, pinning her to the floor, and yelling at her. Although I wanted to walk out then and there, I was thinking: okay, this guy has something I need; let’s grin and bear it, get a diagnosis, and then get the hell out of here. Dr. Bowersox, however, had a whole other idea in mind: he recognized that we were the suckers who would do whatever it takes to make our pup better again, and he informed us that he would take a look at her leg, but that he couldn’t do so until the following day --a "surgery day". Surgery day? What?? “Yes,” he stated, “I will not take a look at that ‘animal’ unless she’s put under.” The “animal” he was referring to who was obediently laying at his feet?!? I kindly explained that she was a patient dog and that in the days since the injury she had dutifully undergone three veterinary exams, two rounds of xrays, and had been casted twice. Despite my plea, it was clear that Dr. Bowersox would have nothing to do with saving us time, money, or stress to our “animal,” and he firmly restated that he refused to see her without her being “put under”. At that, I turned to Marty and simply asked “Well, what do you think?” As Marty opened his mouth to respond, Dr. Bowersox’s voice was all I heard: “DON’T TALK ABOUT ME AS IF I’M NOT IN THE ROOM. YOU CAME HERE TO GET THE OPINION OF AN EXPERT. I AM THE EXPERT - I SAY SHE NEEDS TO BE ANESTHETIZED." Long story short, the mom in me kicked in and after telling his “administrator” (who he sent in to try to clean up his mess) that anesthetizing a dog to look at its leg is like anesthetizing a child to give it a haircut, and that we would never consider allowing Dr. Bowersox to lay another hand on Joey, we walked out of there with a headache for each of us and a bill for $100.
…And that’s how we ended up in Dr. Cherry’s office, and came out with a pup who looked like this:
In the eight weeks that have ensued we have dutifully followed instructions that we restrict Joey’s activity level to an absolute minimum – not an easy task for a puppy, especially one who hails from a breed notorious for its boundless energy. We have lived through the nuisance of weekly recheck visits to the vet; the hassle of wrapping a plastic bag around her leg each time she goes out to pee; putting on, and taking off, and putting back on, her E-collar numerous times a day so she doesn't chew her cast off; restraining her from giving Tao a concussion by way of a blunt blow to her head with the cast during their regular romp sessions on the dining room rug… you get the picture.
Two weeks ago we returned to Dr. Cherry, who x-rayed her leg again and determined that she was healing well and that she was ready to transition into a soft splint, which he requested she wear for two weeks. Last Friday we returned for our recheck and consulted with Dr. Cherry, who reported that one more week on the splint would do her well and that he would remove it when she came in to be spayed this coming Thursday.
Ahh… we were almost finally in the clear. We had done everything right and our precious pup would be back to new again.
But the story wouldn’t end there….
On Saturday night we noticed a funky odor emanating from her cast. We discussed it, but attributed it to the fact that she had enjoyed a can of sardines for lunch and had likely licked the cast afterward. By Sunday evening the stench had gone from funky to unbearable. Marty examined the area, and noticed an abscessed, pussy sore at the top of her leg, which had been caused by the cast rubbing when she walked. We cut the top of the cast back, cleaned the wound with rubbing alcohol, applied topical antibacterial cream, and then put ourselves to bed for the night.
All was seemingly fine yesterday, but late last night while lazing around on the couch, we checked over the casted leg and noticed very obvious inflammation in the paw that protruded out from under the cast. To say we freaked out would be an understatement. Marty grabbed scissors and we cut the cast off like we were prying open a totaled car to get to an injured victim with the Jaws of Life. Joey remained her patient self as he did so, but was eager to lick at her newly freed leg when the last of the gauze was finally pulled away. Marty and I looked at each other, and let out a deep sigh of relief, but then looked back down at the leg only to realize that the healed leg we thought we had uncovered was instead badly bent, half the size of the other leg, and it lay there limp and lifeless. On top of that, her paw was engorged with swelling, red, and tender to the touch. When Joey stood to test it out, it bent backward as if double jointed and she quickly communicated that she had no desire to place an ounce of weight on it.
We were helpless. We put her in her crate to restrict her movement and Marty sat there on the floor beside her. He, with his head in his hands; she, with her head on her blanket and her big eyes sifting from Martyn to her paw, and then back to Martyn...as if to say, "Did I do something wrong?"
Eventually we covered her with her blankets, and retreated to bed, but laid there playing out the possibilities in our heads: Did she somehow rebreak it? Would she require thousands of dollars worth of surgery and hydrotherapy to repair the bone and ligament? What did we do wrong?
When Dr.Cherry walked in, his eyes widened and he gingerly examined her every which way. Marty and I held our breaths when he finally looked up at us and spoke: “I am concerned, but I am not worried. I think we have a bad case of atrophied muscles here. Go home, give her a nice warm bath, massage her swollen paw as often as you can and place warm towels on it. The muscles will rebuild again, and it won’t be long before we’re out of the dark on this one.”
(Insert choirs of angels singing.)
No more cast, no thousand dollar surgeries, no more covering her cast with a plastic bag each time she goes outside to pee, no more perseverating puppy who takes every opportunity to lick and bite at her cast when we’re not looking. And, alas, the $998.50 of vet bills can now be put behind us.
As we drove home, Joey on Marty’s lap, we commented on how well she had fit in the same place during her nap on the ride from the Pennsylvania countryside she was born in to the house we brought her home to four months ago.
JOEY AT TWO MONTHS
JOEY AT SIX MONTHS
When we got home, she walked around the front yard like it was her first day on this earth. We brought her inside and bathed her, and I took in the smell of her clean fur.
Sometimes when I really think about it, I get sad for her and I mourn the loss of the puppyhood we all intended she have – one that was carefree, cost-free, and cast-free.
Although most of me thinks back to December 6th and wishes she just walked down the stairs that day and hopped back up on her dad’s lap to be pet and loved, a small portion of me knows that I love her more now because her final step down didn’t quite work out as planned. As incredibly cheesy at it sounds, that thought kind of gives my heart “the zoomies.”
