My intention to spend most of my weekend with the fish happened… for 15 minutes on Friday. The rest of the weekend was a creative combination of total chaos and dreamy moments of lazily lying around with Violet and the Seal on warm, sunny beaches. The moments of complete chaos were short lived and far enough between that the recovery time of lying around in the sun with Violet tucked into me while I threw the ball over and over… and over, for the Seal to swim to and fetch feels like the majority of my moments. But the majority of the reason for feeling so utterly exhausted still come from the several fleeting moments of White-Tall-Femme-is-going-on-here?, all of which the Seal hand delivered.
We were house sitting for some friends this weekend. Friends with chickens and goats and a cat. And due to the extent in which detail would be exhaustingly necessary I really don’t have the energy to try and recreate the whole weekend. Let’s just say that the Seal’s new nickname is chicken-chasing- cat-licking-goat teasing-couch pissing- bread-stealing-deadly-killer-Seal-pup.
You could fill in your own interpretation [here] and no matter what order or exact scenario you come up with, if it involves a lot of desperate squawking, a few rolls of paper towels, goats refusing to milk, and having to go out to breakfast due to the slobbery in house options, you are very, very close, if not right on.
As we were driving home late Sunday evening Violet said, “You know, maybe we need to drive by the pound every once in a while. Slowly. Just to remind her.”