His hot breath stinking of garbage that to my knowledge he hadn’t eaten, my dog pushed still closer from his awkward perch on the passenger seat and once-again dry-heaved. I flinched yet again, trying to push him back over to his side of the rental car whilst keeping one eye on the road — which I couldn’t see through the torrential downpour we’d driven through for the past three hours.
How did someone (me) purported to be amongst the greatest dog-lovers in the world get to the point that he’s kicking dogs to the actual curb at 1:30 a.m.?
The petri dish that was #1’s backpack was a ready supply of fuel for the large tupperware container that my bride had designated as the composting collection bin. I lifted the lid of the container to dump in the moldy morsels and was greeted by a large cloud of what I presumed to be fruit flies. We didn’t seem to be growing any dirt, or vegetables, around here, but we were definitely doing our part to increase the fly population.
We’d adopted Katy from a shelter a couple of years earlier, and she seemed determined to make up for her initially “free” purchase via a series of 4 digit transactions at the pet hospital.