Zero comments on the last Tulip post. I get on Facebook, which I really shouldn’t do when I’m feeling stabby, and post:
Fourteen out of 15 commenters say they do read these posts. I start another edition of the Foster Chronicles. But it’s mostly because I can’t help myself.
Late night playdate with Mini-Poodle*!
(I only catch the tail end of it.)
I let Tulip out in the morning, as usual. When I go outside later, I find a puddle on the deck. Did it rain? I look around. No. No rain. Hm.
Another puddle on the deck after letting Tulip out. I think she’s picked up a bad habit from Mini-Poodle.
Saturday morning. Tulip wants to go out, so I let her and then flop back onto my bed. When I stumble outside with her breakfast later, I find that the gate to the yard had swung closed during the storm in the night so she’s been trapped on the deck for 45 minutes. Puddle of pee. Aaaaaaaaand pile of crap. On the deck.
Not her fault.
I take Tulip into the yard and make sure she pees out there, then I head inside to get her breakfast. When I walk out with the bowl, I find a perfect poop pile right in front of the rocking chairs.
Probably not her fault, but having a hard time feeling like it’s mine.
*I should probably note at this point that Mini-Poodle is not actually a poodle. He’s probably a bichon frisé. But I’ve been calling him Mini-Poodle for so long now, it seems dumb to stop.