When I say ‘a bear’ I mean bear-like. Like, as big as a bear, only maybe bigger. He wanted a piece of me and he got it. That’s one mean little groundhog.
Except it wasn’t little. Just making sure you’re clear on this.
Now I’ve got this thing wrapped around my head, the cone of shame wrapped around my neck, and Him, wrapped around my little finger. Lots of baby-talk happening in that quarter – which I’m milking. I’m milking it like crazy, baby. Lap-time. Extra ball-throwing. Got a bit of His steak on Tuesday and pretty sure I can go for gold and get a new bed out of this whole thing by the end of the week.
Her, not so much. She’s a little pissed off about how much the vet costs these days and is somehow morphing that into a discussion about the evils of student loans. Seriously, this is what She does. Nothing is simple. If you start talking about how awesome the Caps are, She’ll turn that into a full blown discussion of sports idolatry and how hockey games turn June Cleavers into Melissa McCarthys and how we’re all going the way of Rome.
Just cause you said the Caps were cool.
Anyway, I’m lucky to get a pain pill on time, but then, I think The Boy and The Girl had similar issues any time they got hurt over the years. There’s a lot of ‘what-doesn’t-destroy-you-makes-you-stronger’ going on in this house. I’m a Jack Russell so I can respect that, but it doesn’t bode well for my new bed.
So, the plan is, I get this thing off, do a few laps and get in fighting shape (house arrest is doing ugly things to my muscle tone) and then I find that dirtbag of a groundhog and give him a few reasons why he should have taken a bigger bite.