Dear Shadow,
When you dragged me across the pool parking lot just now in front of all the tennis moms you must have gotten a real rush. What did it feel like for you when my shin, knee, hip, shoulder, forearm, palm and finally, face, skidded across the dirty pavement and ended up in that puddle?
I sure wish I had known to expect the sudden trip so I could have unwrapped your leash from around my wrist, instead of flying through the air like a hooked carp.
Obviously my busy day of bringing home the bacon (ok, 50 bucks) wasn’t enough for you. The doggie bones from my quick grocery trip didn’t satisfy, either. When you brought me your ball, I played fetch with you. And then, instead of sitting on my rear reading magazines while the kids had tennis lessons, I decided to bring you along for a nice long walk.
And now, as we sit here in the car, me fuming and composing this blog in my head and bleeding on the steering wheel, all you can do is pant and give me that stupid, happy-dog look.
I guess it’s all my fault. I mean, you did see another dog to chase after, and it’s not like you get to do that every day. Oh yeah.
And when I miss my dear friend’s going away party in an hour as I pick gravel out of my shoulder, it’s not like she’s moving to Belgium or anything. Oh yeah.
And as the sheets stick to my wounds tonight as I try to sleep, and I say goodbye to wearing any flirty, shoulder-baring fashions for the next 100 years, I’ll just say thanks again, bitch.
Not Love,
Anna
When you dragged me across the pool parking lot just now in front of all the tennis moms you must have gotten a real rush. What did it feel like for you when my shin, knee, hip, shoulder, forearm, palm and finally, face, skidded across the dirty pavement and ended up in that puddle?
I sure wish I had known to expect the sudden trip so I could have unwrapped your leash from around my wrist, instead of flying through the air like a hooked carp.
Obviously my busy day of bringing home the bacon (ok, 50 bucks) wasn’t enough for you. The doggie bones from my quick grocery trip didn’t satisfy, either. When you brought me your ball, I played fetch with you. And then, instead of sitting on my rear reading magazines while the kids had tennis lessons, I decided to bring you along for a nice long walk.
And now, as we sit here in the car, me fuming and composing this blog in my head and bleeding on the steering wheel, all you can do is pant and give me that stupid, happy-dog look.
I guess it’s all my fault. I mean, you did see another dog to chase after, and it’s not like you get to do that every day. Oh yeah.
And when I miss my dear friend’s going away party in an hour as I pick gravel out of my shoulder, it’s not like she’s moving to Belgium or anything. Oh yeah.
And as the sheets stick to my wounds tonight as I try to sleep, and I say goodbye to wearing any flirty, shoulder-baring fashions for the next 100 years, I’ll just say thanks again, bitch.
Not Love,
Anna
