Counting down to spring. Who's with me? I am so over having to ask Siri what the temperature is outside and if I'm going to need a hat, mittens or rain boots. Make it stop.
Rain and mud puddles aren't always fun. A few weeks ago, Scott and I were leaving work and he was going to pick up dinner from one of our local favorites. I had a few more things to finish up and I was going to keep the "therapists" with me. He placed the little guy, Truman, in the car for me which "normally" would be helpful.
I wrapped up a few minutes later. Edison and I walked to the car. Against my better judgement, I didn't put him on his leash and thought, "Nah, he will go right to the car with me." I was juggling my coffee, purse, an extra bag and had my eye on him.
I got to the car and swung open the door, not paying attention to Truman standing on the arm rest. He tumbled to the ground and ended up landing on his head causing me to panic for a split second. That was all Edison needed. Squinty eyes glare. BOLT.
Edison ran full speed around the maintenance shed and lake; Truman in hot pursuit barking after him. I yelled multiple words that can't be repeated. Edison has done this twice--bolting to the front of the property where the goats are and the entrance to Hwy 751.
Yelling, I threw my stuff so I could race to the front and beat him in my car. I put the car it in reverse and spilled my entire cup of coffee in my lap. So then I was racing to the front with warm, wet pants yelling more words I can't repeat.
I beat him to the front and he was running towards me, tongue out, tail wagging, but he wouldn't come to me. It was suddenly a game, and I was screaming like I was being murdered. Seriously. The neighbors had to wonder what in the world was going on.
I finally grabbed Edison and was able to get him in the car. Then I glanced down and realized I was covered in mud. My cream sweater and vest were trashed. TRASHED. I was muddy, wet and saturated with coffee...and fuming.
To heap emotion on top of emotion, I couldn't find Truman. So I marched, angrily like any good Enneagram 8 would, all the way back around the lake to find him standing by the maintenance shed barking "I'm over here! I'm over here!". I picked him up and he added to my muddy mess.
Once home, they both were left on the back porch while I showered, treated my sweater and vest, and poured myself a fish bowl glass of wine while waiting for dinner. Scott walked in and immediately sensed my mood. I declared, "Next time, I am picking up dinner!" Thankfully, I was able to laugh as we ate and while I bathed the "so-called" therapists.
You may think, "Oh, how cute to take your dogs to work every day! That must be so nice for everyone." Let this be a testimonial of the glamor it is not. Not every day anyway. What would be glamorous is covering your desk with houseplants in pretty little pots that do not move, do not bark, and do not drag papers and shred them all over your floor. Yes, plants I can manage. Bolting dogs, not so much. #trainingonthehorizon
