I've immersed myself in detox tea this week to give my liver a little hug after last weekend. White wine, beer, screwdrivers and bloody marys; they all made we want to wring out my organs.
Fitzgerald was a nervous werck as we drove from the flat, scorched plains of North Texas to the lush, Bayou wonderland of Houston. He sat, shaking like a leaf in autumn, on my lap the entire way there. And he didn't stop shaking until he bounded back in to our house on Dallas' rainy Labor Day.
We watched the Astros get assaulted by the Mets on Saturday, had some home-cookin' on Sunday after a visit to one of Dave's old buddies, Kenny, and his wife, Brooke, to see their newly minted baby boy. Fitgerald made friends with his cousin, Trinity, a female Jack Russel terrier, who chased the kid around the house, wrassled with him and then piled on top of the couch next to him.