Last night I fell asleep watching the fireworks in bed, which is just about the only way I can handle fireworks: inside, horizontal, under a blanket, and far, far, away from noise and crowds. But all the sparkling festivity must have addled my brain because among many other things, I dreamed that M got quite upset because while we were watching Mad Men, John Hamm cut into the program to read a letter professing his undying and unrelenting love … for me.
A girl can dream, can’t she?
I might have found fireworks in bed (ahem) relaxing, but Kaylee, the Airedale we are sitting, most certainly did NOT. She holed herself up in a corner of the basement for about twelve hours. She only came up to crap all over the dining room floor and head back down again. Of course, she couldn’t have crapped when only I saw it, offering me the chance to clean it up before a very dog-wary M walked in. No, she crapped in full view of all of us, allowing M to point it out to me, with something of an I-told-you-all-dogs-crap-in-the-house look on his face. And hence, we may be one step further away from dog ownership today. When I went to bed she was flat out refusing to head outside for her evening constitutional, so I fully expected to wake up to a sea of feces.
Otherwise, Kaylee is a remarkable animal. She doesn’t mind the kids invading every square inch of her personal space. She doesn’t mind me and my sincere belief that all dogs preferred to be spoken to in German (which I do not speak well at all). Nor does she bristle at my refusal to call her Kaylee, which as any sensible person could see, is a stripper’s name. And even though she just crapped all over my dining room and then tracked it into the basement, this dog is no bimbo. So, I call her Margaret, or if I feeling playful, Maggie.
She answers to neither.

While I do not see a dog in our immediate future, I’d like to think that one day we’ll be able to make the room for one. And if we do, I want one just like this one. Until then, she can just be the dog of my dreams. I just need to tell John Hamm to roll over and make some room for her.
Woof.