What the dog wants to play these days is lie down on my white slip-covered sofa. But since I put the-thing-she-fears-most on it--the broom-- to keep it from being my brown and hairy slip-covered sofa, she goes to H's leather chair and slowly hops up, or to the rug by the coffee table where she slowly plops down.
The dog is no spring chicken. And I feel bad for hating so much. Hating her for reasons outlined in any number of the posts on this blog, and because she killed 4 of my spring chickens. (Children do not know about this thanks to a hasty trip to an actual chicken ranch in San Leon for replacements by their loving father)
She is snoring softly now, and as is her habit, will get up later for her late night treat of a found sippy cup, which she will enjoy, cup lid and all.
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