When this little girl came home from the pet store, she was nervous and threw up all over my Sunday church clothes. I'm pretty sure it was foamy vomit. White. And I'm positive she gave me "I'm sorry" puppy-dog eyes as soon as she was finished. Now, fourteen years later, she's deaf and has a few inoperable tumors, but she still has the same amount of pep she did that morning after I forgave her for the vomit foamy vomit incident and played fetch with her.
It's a short blog today because, after spending hours bent over a stack of papers and then even more hours bent over job applications, I'm exhausted. I've popped in a movie, devoured most of a pizza, and just opened a beer. It's a personal night.
But on the way back to the car after picking up that movie, this cute little dog was sitting on the center console between the front seats with her ears perked up, watching my every move at the redbox. When I got in the car she gave me a quick nuzzle before she settled into her passenger-in-the-car position: perched at the edge of the seat, nose resting against and spasmodically sniffing the air vent.
She's my partner in crime, the foamy vomit dog.
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