The Dog.

Oh Dolly. She's only 8 years old, but senile like a beloved Grandma that wears her bra outside of her clothes. Dolly has the unfortunate habit of eating cat poo and scrounging for things that are altogether not good for her, and it makes her even more sick. This weekend we thought we would have to put her to sleep. It's been a back and forth sadness. We even said our goodbyes. Then she woke up this morning the picture of health, besides the still senile part.

I'm home sick with her. I can genuinely not feel guilty for taking this sick day, because my heart and head are so sick with agonizing over this little dog. She's the dog of a million second chances. First adopted by our dear friends the Jeremiah's in 2002, she came to live with us permanently in 2004. Well, when they got back from their year trip abroad we nicely said "we don't want to give her back!" They obliged, saying she was really ours. What a weird little animal, really, a dog that irritates yet is so cute you forgive her.

I'm overwrought and exhausted. And she lies next to the portable heater, saved.