I was pregnant with our oldest when we moved into our house…what we then referred to as our starter home…on Memorial Day weekend…21 years ago. Okay, so we’re really sloooooooooooow starters.
Although my husband and I still dream about not having to share a closet (smaller than some other people’s pantries) or my waking up in the middle of the night and having to go to the bathroom, all…the…way…downstairs…across the kitchen…through the living room…and waaaaay on the other side of the house…[taking a moment to catch my breath…phew…thanks!]…it’s more than what a lot of other people have and, well, we’ve always managed to sort of make stuff work.
It’s also a lot easier now, in the sense that our kids are mostly-grown and have all pretty much child-proofed themselves, by now.
Then our poor old Doofus-dawg goes and hurts himself, by fracturing a bone in his foot which had to be splinted in order for it to heal properly, so the vet sent us home with very strict instructions:
- NO JUMPING
- NO RUNNING
- NO CLIMBING
No problem, I mean, seeing as he spends most of his days dosing on the couch, right?!?
- AND ABSOLUTELY NO JUMPING UP ON THE FURNITURE
R’uh-oh. Seriously?!? The definition of a dog’s life includes jumping on the furniture — especially, when you’re NOT looking — and, for as big as he is, our Doofus-dawg is especially proficient in sneaking up right next to you, without you even knowing it, until it’s too late.
