Only eight days to go (give or take).
Help. (Note white flag of surrender waving in my hand.)
The poor boy needs tranquilizers.
His high pitched barking makes me feel bad for all those frogs I pithed in 10th grade biology class. I suspect needles scrambling the brains in their heads felt a bit like Ridge's high frequency pitch in mine.
Baxter Boos and Elsie Girl are oblivious; it's status quo for them. Baxter still lumbers around the house like the gentle giant he is; Elsie still wants to snuggle and lean against me and get her touch fix like usual.
She doesn't, however, want to go back into the crate. But in she must go if I'm to let Ridge out and get a break from this barking (needling?).
We're back in the rotation again.
'Til next time (if I survive),
Joan
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