Last night I watched the Kansas City Royals whip the
Baltimore Orioles to go up 2-0 in their best of seven series. At roughly the
same time that this was happening, the two SEC teams from the state of
Mississippi were busy beating the snot out of their opponents, causing me to
wonder what could possibly be next. Are the Cleveland Browns about to embark on
a ten game winning streak?
While all of this was happening, Lucy and I were
furiously engaged in a game we like to call, “Find Daddy’s Face,” whereby I lay
on the floor face down trying to cover my entire head with my arms while Lucy
searches for a weakness in my defenses with her probing wet nose and powerful
paws. Molly was especially gifted at this game, and Lucy is equally
enthusiastic, and never fails to burst through and end the game in a flurry of
wild puppy kisses to the face. Only, somehow along the way one of her ginormous
paws happened to slice across one of my ears. Caught up in the game, I ignored
the brief but searing pain. It was only ten minutes later that I sensed
something warm on that ear and asked Pam to inspect the damage. Only then did I
notice the blood stains on the shoulder of my shirt. Lucy’s razor-sharp claws
had inadvertently sliced a thin line down from the top of the ear down close to
the lobe and it was bleeding like crazy.
This wound is just the latest in a series of gashes,
cuts and bruises administered to me by my wildly enthusiastic puppy. The back
of my hands are littered with teeth and claw marks, my right forearm looks like
a drug-addicts worst nightmare. In other words, it’s awesome!
What’s the point of
having a dog if you can’t get down on the floor and wrestle? Of course, Pam
thinks it’s ridiculous and that we “play too hard!” What do women know about
such things? Nothing, that’s what.
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