By Mariane Holbrook
Even if there is nothing to laugh about, laugh on credit.
~Author Unknown
Don't talk to me about dogs. I'll break out in a cold sweat. Don't misunderstand me. I love dogs; I really do. In fact, for most of my married life, I've had dogs, which I spoiled rotten. Simply rotten. My son always said he wanted to be reincarnated as one of my dogs. I treat them that well.
Even if there is nothing to laugh about, laugh on credit.
~Author Unknown
Don't talk to me about dogs. I'll break out in a cold sweat. Don't misunderstand me. I love dogs; I really do. In fact, for most of my married life, I've had dogs, which I spoiled rotten. Simply rotten. My son always said he wanted to be reincarnated as one of my dogs. I treat them that well.
We've owned Golden Retrievers, Boston Terriers, and a Pekingese. But the dog of all dogs was a little white fur ball named Missy, our Cockapoo.
If you look up the word "adorable," you'll find Missy's picture in black and white. But if you look up "incorrigible," you'll find her picture in blazing color with the Boston Pops Orchestra playing the "1812 Overture" as a deafening background.
Missy held me hostage. She took complete charge of my life from the day she arrived. I was her willing slave and she knew it.
Before she was born, I honestly believe she chatted excitedly with the rest of the litter in her mother's womb about how she would drive me out of what was left of my mind. And she came precariously close to it several times.
Missy had two passions in life. One was to pull the end of a roll of bathroom tissue down the hall, into the living room, through nearly every bedroom, ending back in the bathroom in one perfect loop. And all this without a single break in the tissue. An incredible feat. Unfortunately, I was the only one who thought so.
Her other passion was my husband's underwear. She loved to chew it to shreds, placing the ragged fragments in front of John's closet where he tripped over them and flew into a rage. She loved to be the focus of a rage. It made her feel important and needed. Or something.
But one day Missy came perilously close to losing her beloved place in my heart. She came even closer to permanent eviction from our home.
I was taking a leisurely bath one afternoon when I heard my husband close the kitchen screen door and drive off. The screen door offered very little in the way of protection and privacy, so I draped a towel around me and headed for the kitchen to close the solid wood door and lock it before resuming my bath.
Just as I reached across the open space to pull the kitchen door shut, Missy grabbed one end of the bath towel and ran with it, leaving me stark you-know-what in front of the open door. To my horror, the UPS man stood on the outside step staring up at me.
We both froze. Then I leaped back out of sight and stammered, "Do I owe you anything?" He dropped the package on the top step by the door and ran back to his truck, calling over his shoulder, "Lady, you don't owe me a thing!"
I never saw him again. Either he was transferred to another route, he died of cardiac arrest, or he suffered a total mental collapse.
As for what I did to Missy, I take the Fifth.
If you look up the word "adorable," you'll find Missy's picture in black and white. But if you look up "incorrigible," you'll find her picture in blazing color with the Boston Pops Orchestra playing the "1812 Overture" as a deafening background.
Missy held me hostage. She took complete charge of my life from the day she arrived. I was her willing slave and she knew it.
Before she was born, I honestly believe she chatted excitedly with the rest of the litter in her mother's womb about how she would drive me out of what was left of my mind. And she came precariously close to it several times.
Missy had two passions in life. One was to pull the end of a roll of bathroom tissue down the hall, into the living room, through nearly every bedroom, ending back in the bathroom in one perfect loop. And all this without a single break in the tissue. An incredible feat. Unfortunately, I was the only one who thought so.
Her other passion was my husband's underwear. She loved to chew it to shreds, placing the ragged fragments in front of John's closet where he tripped over them and flew into a rage. She loved to be the focus of a rage. It made her feel important and needed. Or something.
But one day Missy came perilously close to losing her beloved place in my heart. She came even closer to permanent eviction from our home.
I was taking a leisurely bath one afternoon when I heard my husband close the kitchen screen door and drive off. The screen door offered very little in the way of protection and privacy, so I draped a towel around me and headed for the kitchen to close the solid wood door and lock it before resuming my bath.
Just as I reached across the open space to pull the kitchen door shut, Missy grabbed one end of the bath towel and ran with it, leaving me stark you-know-what in front of the open door. To my horror, the UPS man stood on the outside step staring up at me.
We both froze. Then I leaped back out of sight and stammered, "Do I owe you anything?" He dropped the package on the top step by the door and ran back to his truck, calling over his shoulder, "Lady, you don't owe me a thing!"
I never saw him again. Either he was transferred to another route, he died of cardiac arrest, or he suffered a total mental collapse.
As for what I did to Missy, I take the Fifth.
http://www.chickensoup.com
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