Sometimes you just have to write things because something cute happened. No significance, nothing of eternal importance, but cute.
We were at Sigrid’s house, and I took Claudia into the back yard because I spend half my life now outside, frequently in the rain, waiting for the puppy to piddle.
I was looking at the sky, or a bird, or something and heard a splash. Turning quickly, I see a little red head swimming for safety, and then a thoroughly bedraggled scrawny dog emerged.
She started shaking herself off as I grabbed for the camera.
Another shake, and I saw this
I yelled at Gail to grab a couple of towels, then brought the poor wet dog into the house and proceeded to dry her off.
I guess it’s good to know that the dog can swim.
Dog stories. Now I’m writing dog stories. How could this happen to me?