My mom visits and gives her foster granddog a present: a soft blanky (“because she’s so snuggly”) with a picture of a doggy and a kitty on it. The doggy on the blanket is not a pit bull. We discuss the fact that they probably don’t make blankets with pit bulls on them. A quick google search proves us so very wrong.
I awake at 5:20 to the familiar backwards-gulp sound (uh-ggg, uh-ggg, uh-ggg) of a dog fixin’ to thow up. I jump out of bed and flip on lights. Redford’s fine; Violet’s fine. Tulip has yorked a big pile of grassy mess onto her new blanky. I let her outside for a while, clean up the mess, and open the window to air out the room. Then I settle down on the couch, hoping to go back to sleep for half an hour. Tulip curls up in the crook of my knees and shnores. I lie there listening to the birds shriek at each other until my alarm goes off.
When I go out in the evening, Tulip goes in her crate with no padding over the plastic tray because it’s in the wash from the barfing. While I’m gone, she eats the damn crate tray.
Later, I will be walking through the kitchen barefoot in the dark and kick that jagged part, slicing open the ball of my left foot.
Tulip is outside. When I go out to check on her, this is hanging out of her mouth.
In the previous few days, I have wrestled this
from Redford and Violet.
I get emotional like always. And then I go to the farmers’ market and buy chicken. I feel ridiculous.
I buy Tulip a new pink tennis ball to play with. Within five minutes,