“Mom! He’s poisoning the dog again.”
Son Two’s voice dripped with injustice.
It was one of those days. I dropped my belongings in a pile by the door and let the recliner draw me in like it had a La-Z-Boy certified tractor beam.
“He’s just licking my foot.” Son One grinned as Bo tickled his ivories.
“Last time he did that he was sick all over the living room. It looked like a CSI biology experiment.”
“If you ever uncovered your feet he might lick yours. You’ve had the same socks on since 1993. There's enough gunk on the bottom to make you two inches taller.”
“At least I wear socks. Your shoes squish when you walk like they belong to Spongebob.”
The big dog paused and looked around the room as if polling the audience. Sure, he lifts his midnight snacks from the litter box, but a face that sweet shouldn’t have to stoop to this level for friendship.
“Come here, Sweetheart.” I called the big Lab over to sit by me. Nothing makes a bad day better like a hug from somebody who doesn’t care if you’ve borrowed his razor.
With a regretful glance, Bo strolled over to my chair, heaved the remains of his day of foraging at my feet, then looked up expectantly, waiting for a treat.
Figures. Dog logic dictates that when the stomach empties, it's time to put more inside. Human logic states that when the chips are down and you think nothing else can go wrong, the dog will throw up.
I think I'll get a ferret.