This weekend I have tons of activities planned.
Is there anything more annoying than a weekend of things to do? I just got done entertaining someone. I wanted a weekend to myself. With nary a plan. But no.
Last night I got home a little late, as I worked a little late, and walked in and said, Man it’s quiet in here. What is it, exactly?
…And right then I knew. There was no dog in the house. I’d taken him to dog daycare, and forgotten about him.
And by the way, you guys, turns out I will, in fact, be able to livestream my Dog Mother of the Year Award ceremony, so.
My lack of jawline and I screamed back downtown and into dog daycare at the 11th hour, and you know how it is when it’s 11th o’clock. The other bad dog parents were all there too. One woman was getting her big white fluffy kittenheaded Great Pyrenees, and there was great obsessing in the land, and I wanted to kiss his whole head repeatedly, which would have looked super sane. Some other dude was getting his small shaggy white dog and I was all, whatever.
Finally my neither white nor fluffy nor big nor small dog came out. The thing about Edsel is, when I leave, he’s got his front paws on the window from the playroom, watching me go, with his hanky crumpled in his paw. When I return, he’s up in that window, knowing, somehow, that I’m back. The whole time Tallulah went there, and she went as a puppy, she never even acted like she knew me. She’d run to the guy and never look back.
Anyway, pleased to see me, he was. So then I felt even guiltier and that is why last night Edsel got a Pup Cup from the fast food place.
So that’s today’s parenting tip. When you screw up? Fast food.
I also finished a big old freelance project last night, and turned it in, and they told me another one is on its way forthwith. So that’s good. [Insert “If you can’t drive with a broken back at least you can polish the fenders” joke here.]
So, that sums things up: social plans (sigh), work done and more coming (yay), dog is currently digesting ice cream, and just one more thing:
It’s 7:52 and Steely Dan hasn’t come home. I wish he wouldn’t do this. Sure, there are nights he refuses to come in, nights I know he’s with other women. But in the morning, he usually runs in. Oh, he’s never, ever at the door. Why would you do that if there’s a whole world to explore?
But usually, if I call him, I hear a rustle and he bursts over from Peg’s, or he leaps off the roof. Today? Nothing. I don’t like this. Hang on. Ima go to the front door and call.
I know this will cue the “I NEVER let me cat out” people. But go ahead. Try to keep this cat inside your walls. He figured it out before he was three months old.
Sigh. Further reports as developments warrant.
P.S. I was just about to hit Publish when I heard a meow.
That asshole. Scaring me half to death.