"She gets in there again, I'm shootin' her, and you can put me in jail or fine me, mayor.See if I won't.They're attractin' wolves, too.My little Petunia is scared to go outside at night, what with all the howlin', and I ain't that far outside of town."
George, all three hundred pounds of him, has an adorable little Pomeranian-Shih Tzu that perches on the center console of his forty-year-old orange RAM charger, and can often be seen balancing on his shoulder like a furry, four-legged parrot.
"George," Ingrid says."Have you looked into an anti-predator suit for Petunia?"
"A what?"the big man asks, eying Ingrid skeptically."I don't truck with no sweaters for no dogs."
“No, it's not a sweater, it's a—well, I mean, it is, but it has spikes all over it so hawks can't get them."
He blinks, thinking or picturing, and then snorts a laugh."Guess I could rig somethin' for her.Have to put some lights on it so I can see where she is, though.Spiky sweaters, huh?Who'd'a thunk it?"
He ambles off, muttering to himself.
"Is that a real thing, Ingrid?"Kath asks.
Ingrid already has a photo up on her phone—it's a Chihuahua wearing… well, a sweater with three-inch plastic spikes all over it, like a piece of avant-garde porcupine art.
We all die laughing at the idea of big George trying to get something like that on his little dog.
I get a little more tipsy than I'd planned on, and Kathy's husband Jim shows up to drive me home in my Jeep, followed by Alaina’s husband to take Jim back to his car.
I peek in on Mallory—she's asleep with her lights on, laptop still playing her videos.I try to be quiet as I shut off her lights and close her laptop, but trip over a pile of dirty clothes and land on the floor, stifling my laughter with both hands.
Mallory rolls away from the wall, grumbling."God, Mom, you smell like a distillery.Go to bed."
"Sorry, baby."
"How'd you get home?"
"Jim and Kathy."
"Have fun?"
"Yes!"
"Good.You needed it.Now go to bed."
Being mommed by my daughter.I love it.
I give her a kiss and head for my room, only bouncing off a couple of walls.
I pass out still clothed.
Oh…ohgod.
I roll to my side, whimpering at the pounding in my head, the cotton in my mouth, and the turmoil in my stomach.
Who told me I could drink like a 23-year-old?I shouldnothave had that last round of shots.
Lordy.
My stomach revolts and I barely make it to the bathroom—after which I feel marginally better.Brushing my teeth improves things, as does a shower—starting cold to shock the system and then turning it scorching.It's not until I shuffle blearily into the kitchen that I realize it's only 5:20 in the morning.On a Saturday.
My weekend class with the juniors—10-12-year-olds—doesn't start until eight, so I could've slept in until at least seven, but here I am, showered and dressed before 5:30, like a dork.
Ugh.Almost as bad as that time in high school when I got up, got dressed, and ran to school in the dark because I thought I was late, only to realize it was three in the morning and it was Sunday.
I brew a pot of coffee and fix myself a bagel to go, leave a note for Mal, and head for the rink.
