July 4th, 2006
You know the crazy cat lady? You know, the one who sits on her porch in her rocker all day with seven cats scrambling for a place on her lap? The one who all of the kids in the neighborhood are just a little bit afraid of for some unknown reason? I used to feel a bit sorry for her. That’s a lot of litter box cleaning and hairball cleaning. I used to pity her. Now I’ve become her.
On May 20th, my Golden Retriever gave birth to eleven puppies. That means that I now have thirteen living, breathing dogs in my house. Thirteen dogs all scrambling for my attention and care, thirteen dogs that can’t go outside during the day because I live in Texas and temperatures are well over ninety degrees outside. Thirteen dogs who all want to be petted and cuddled and fed. Eleven tiny puppies that aren’t potty trained and can’t seem to figure out that the newspaper is for peeing on, not shredding.
It’s not as bad as I’m making it sound. The puppies are adorable. Yesterday, I sat my son up on a blanket outside and let the puppies go. They ran to him and cuddled against him, falling asleep tucked in next to his little body. My son squealed with delight. The puppies rolled and wrestled. My son tried to put one in his mouth. The puppies tried to climb up into his lap. It was a picture-perfect moment made for a Christmas card and the baby book.
So, until July 1st, when the puppies are old enough to be adopted, I have officially dubbed myself the cousin of the crazy cat lady. You know, the one who sits in the grass all day with thirteen dogs scrambling for a place on her lap? The one who spends her days cleaning up pee puddles and shredded newspaper and opening tins of puppy food? I’m her.
You know the crazy cat lady? You know, the one who sits on her porch in her rocker all day with seven cats scrambling for a place on her lap? The one who all of the kids in the neighborhood are just a little bit afraid of for some unknown reason? I used to feel a bit sorry for her. That’s a lot of litter box cleaning and hairball cleaning. I used to pity her. Now I’ve become her.
On May 20th, my Golden Retriever gave birth to eleven puppies. That means that I now have thirteen living, breathing dogs in my house. Thirteen dogs all scrambling for my attention and care, thirteen dogs that can’t go outside during the day because I live in Texas and temperatures are well over ninety degrees outside. Thirteen dogs who all want to be petted and cuddled and fed. Eleven tiny puppies that aren’t potty trained and can’t seem to figure out that the newspaper is for peeing on, not shredding.
It’s not as bad as I’m making it sound. The puppies are adorable. Yesterday, I sat my son up on a blanket outside and let the puppies go. They ran to him and cuddled against him, falling asleep tucked in next to his little body. My son squealed with delight. The puppies rolled and wrestled. My son tried to put one in his mouth. The puppies tried to climb up into his lap. It was a picture-perfect moment made for a Christmas card and the baby book.
So, until July 1st, when the puppies are old enough to be adopted, I have officially dubbed myself the cousin of the crazy cat lady. You know, the one who sits in the grass all day with thirteen dogs scrambling for a place on her lap? The one who spends her days cleaning up pee puddles and shredded newspaper and opening tins of puppy food? I’m her.
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