By Friday of last week, I thought it was Saturday. A strange holiday week, with Independence day falling on Tuesday and not getting Monday off work, threw my work-week rhythym for a loop! So by the time it was time for a timely weekend, I was already in a Saturday mid-morning haze.
I was in bed early on Friday so I would rise early Saturday and make a 10 a.m. yoga class. I stumbled through the house, landing in the kitchen. I filled my breakfast bowl with a little granola, fixed some java, retrieved the paper and planted my slumbering body at the head of the dining table.
Unlike most Saturday mornings, Dave was up and around. He, just as half-awake as I, was absent-mindedly roving the house. When he reached the dining room, he asked, "Aren't you a bit hot?" and reached for the fan pull above the table. After one solid yank, the fan crashed, WHAM! onto the dining table and bits of it landed in my breakfast and in my coffee.
I was so alarmed. "What the **expletive** just happened!?" I sat and stared at the ceiling fan, which came to rest just inches before me. If I hadn't moved to the head of the table, if I had sat in my regular seat, the fan would have landed on my head, and the world would be deprived of my roasted garlic hummus forever.
Fate was on my side though, and as we scooped the bits of glass and splinters of wood from the table and the rug. "At least we'll get a new fan!" quipped Dave, which was immediately followed by a pummelling.
After yoga class, I discreetly ventured to the pet supply store, bought a feeder mouse for Motley and cat food, and came home. Dave and I had thought about getting a dog the night before, so when I got home, we discussed it over lunch. We found that a local shelter was having a pet fair at a different pet supply store, so we grabbed our checkbook and departed.
Upon arriving, I was overcome with jealousy. "Why does everyone else get a cute pup but me?" I thought as my lower lip protruded into a modest pouty face. In the center of the cool tiled floor there were dozens of pet crates, and inside those crates were pets. And lots of 'em. I kept thinking, "All of these little guys don't have permanent homes, but I can't take them all. But... just one. Pick one. This'll be hard Jo, but pick just one..."
And I did!
The name's Fitzgerald, but it's F. Scott to you!
This little guy has been through it! He's around a year or two old, and he's had his left front leg broken, but it wasn't set properly, so it kind of bends in an odd direction that makes it look like he's sort of prissy. And with our drought, I bet he's got a raging case of allergies. But, by golly, he's a sweetie!
Mr. Orange is warming to him, but Dawsey still bolts at the sound of his jingling tags. He's housebroken and friendly, and really, he's everything I wanted in a small dog, except that he sheds, but that's okay because the cats shed like mad, too.
Sunday, I went shopping, we got a bit of rain, worked on our monthly budget and what not. Overall, maybe I should have just called it "EXTREME SATURDAY!"