I woke up to white fluffy stuff all over the ground, in gentle mounds and drifts. Sleepily, my first thought was: Snow? My second thought was: Uh-oh. It’s inside the house.
It’s all coming back to me. Christmas had a bad day yesterday. I’m going to be welded to the vacuum. That’s enough right there to make me want to pull the covers back over my head.
Lapdogs are supposed to be cute, easily entertained, fluffy little fur balls, who consider a walk around the block roughly the equivalent of running the Iditarod. Dogs who like sofas and disdain cats.
Daisy laughed her head off when she saw the dog purse I bought.
“You’re kidding, right?”
I bought the purse before I knew who he was.
Christmas, when we adopted him, had all the outward signs of a lapdog. Long, fluffy black hair, short stature, and he could cock his little face into adorableness like nobody’s business. Lhasa Apso x poodle, the shelter said.
Right. Someone has never seen a terrier mix in their life. He’s inexhaustable. There’s also, unbelievably, bird dog in the mix. Nine inches tall, and he points.
We live in a semi-gated community, which, among other amenities has a lake populated with big mouth bass, water-lilies, turtles, and two urban savvy ducks who refuse to migrate. Christmas desperately points them out three times a day. Nose straight out, body rigid, foot up, tail straight back and still.
Mom. Ducks. Shhhhh. You can shoot them now.
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