Being On The Mend, Dogs, And She Who Can Not Be Named

I’ve been slacking on the blogging again.  Kinda, sorta, with good reason this time.  You see, I have a house guest – my husband’s grandmother – and I’ve been hanging with her some.  And working on my novel.   Since I’ve been  confined to sitting for long periods of time having to keep my broken foot elevated (which is healing quite crookedly, but no need for surgery, thanks for asking), I’ve had loads of time to make quite a bit of progress.  I’ve gone from being a quarter of the way finished to a third of the way.  I’ve also gotten through the two seasons of Peaky Blinders on Netflix and read Good Omens by Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett.  Great show, and great book, which I’m really surprised I didn’t read sooner.  So in regards to building my writing career, I have been extremely productive.  In regards to the rest of my life, well, you might not want to look too closely, but my kids are still alive and my husband doesn’t currently want to murder me, so I would say that all is well.

With one exception.  My husband’s grandma brought my mother-in-law’s [who shall be from now on be known as ‘She Who Can Not Be Named’] dog with her.  I hate this dog.  Now, let me clarify something before you judge.  I LOVE dogs!  I have one of my own… A beautiful black Lab I call Jake.

Screen Shot 2015-01-28 at 9.39.22 AM
Jake. Mommy’s best friend.

Jake is my fourth child.  He’s hyper, licks way too much, smacks repeatedly me with his ever-wagging tail (which sometimes hurts, especially when he smacks my broken foot), and barks to alert me when the mailman or the pizza guy is here, or just to let me know the neighbor is outside.  He’s about 80 pounds and thinks he’s a lap dog.  But back to She Who Can Not Be Named‘s dog… I hate that dog.

For the past month, that little rat she calls Chloe hasn’t stopped barking.  And it doesn’t have a strong bark like Jake does.  It has a high, shrill, yipping bark that grates on my last nerve.  Every.  Fucking.  Day.  And to add insult to my injured ears, Chloe pees and poops all over my kitchen because she wasn’t trained to go outside.  Granted, she does it only in the kitchen, and not on my wooden floors, but every time I hobble into my kitchen and see a new, what my boys have dubbed ‘landmine’, or a little puddle, I want to commit caninoside.

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