I am in the throes of binding a quilt upstairs in the salon. The whole process sets my teeth on edge because my sewing machine hates me. Math also hates me, and there's a lot of math involved in the binding process.
This afternoon, while measuring and chewing my nails, I turned around to glance at the quilt and saw this:
Bear in mind, our dog, Bandit, has been unable to power up (or down) the stairs in over a year, so we carry him up to bed at night and back down each morning. The porch step is problematic. Acorns on the sidewalk trip him up. He's been known to leap into the storm door, believing it open because, well, isn't it?
For a dog who has to sniff my foot to figure out which one of the two adults living in this house I am, Bandit apparently still has a few surprises up his paw.
His burst of athleticism was rewarded with a stroll in the court. Acorns were everywhere, but he managed. The sniffs were plentiful, the sun was just starting to peek through and the temperatures were perfect for someone in a fur coat.
Treats are on the menu tonight. Our boy turns 18 years old this week. We adopted him from the Hinsdale Humane Society 15 years ago. He cost $10.
A few weeks ago, Charlie and I counted up the number of near-death experiences this poor dog has suffered -- mouse poison twice, cracked vertebrae three times, mouth sores, one almost drowning and, two weeks ago, one staircase plunge onto concrete.
He is either the luckiest or the most accursed dog in the land.
Happy birthday, old man. May all your turkey and liverwurst dreams come true.