I am sick, heaving and gasping, head hanging limply over the toilet bowl. Eventually my watery eyes open and there is his fuzzy face next to mine, chin on the toilet seat, eyes full of concern.
Are you okay?
I'm just asking because this is not what you're usually doing at 11:12 p.m.
I’ll be fine. It’s just the baby.
It'll be at least a year in dog time before it get here. Don't worry.
Will it be scary, like thunder and garbage trucks?
Probably. But it will throw food on the floor. You'll like that.
Should I get the saltines?
That would be lovely.
Can I have one?
Just a half.
Okay. By the way, you look great right now. You always look great. You tell the best jokes and play the best tug-of-war and are the best belly scratcher in the world!
You're not so bad yourself.
Labels: Dog is Love