Crashing a Little

I’ve been up since seven and I’m still sitting here in my pajamas, even though we have company that could be arriving at any minute. But it is so nice that the Butcher is home that I’m just kind of like “ah, yes, someone else can let the dog out. And call for the dog who is just standing in the middle of the sidewalk. And call again for her. And ask her if she’s being a weirdo. And then go get her.”

The funniest part of the Butcher’s arrival home is that I think Mrs. W. was a little put out with him. When he came in the house for the first time, she barked at him in a scolding tone, and then she sat between us on the couch, but made a big show out of sitting way closer to me.

I guess it would be weird, if you’re a dog, and time functions so differently. I think they just have a sense of “gone a short time” and “gone a medium time” and “gone a long time.” And she was pissed at the Butcher for being “gone a long time.” Even though, really, it had only been a week.

But, of course, she slept with him and is now curled up on the couch in such a manner that her head is right where he usually sits.

Dogs, man. Their hearts are so big.

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