Suddenly, a menagerie

Mikey volunteered us to dog-sit Toby, Grandma Sarah's dog, while she's in Chicago for her annual two-month visit with Uncle Max and family. He is cute, and he's a sweet-natured little dog:



Unfortunately, he's a flatulent dog. Also a pisser, an upchucker, and a barker. The horrid stank of his farts burned all the hairs out of my nose, and he was peeing on the outside of the kitty litter box, leaving nasty yellow puddles on the bathroom floor. He vomited on my carpets at least once a day. And when I'd exile him to the backyard for his sins, he'd stand at the door and bark non-stop for hours and hours and hours.

I stood it for eight days. The final straw came last Saturday night when we were kicked back for the evening and Toby yakked up a big stinking steaming pile right in front of the TV. I looked over at Mikey and said, "Toby's got to go." Mikey took him over to his parents' house the next day. So that ordeal is over.

Okay, wait -- back up. What was that about a kitty litter box? Since when do we have a cat?

Well, it happened like this: A week ago Saturday, the doorbell rang. It was Cathy. With a cat. The cat Phil brought her. The cat she was supposed to bring over a month or so ago to see if we wanted it, but I hadn't heard a peep from her since then so I thought maybe she decided to keep it.

She brought the cat, cat food, a litter box, a box of kitty litter, and many boxes of kitty box liners. I said, "So is this is a trial run or a forever deal?" She kind of slumped and said, "I guess it's a trial run."

He's a pretty kitty, snow white with pale ginger ears and tail and ice blue eyes. He's tiny, too. I forgot to ask how old he is.





So now we have a cat. We named him Ginger Baker, and Britt loves him. To death, if I don't keep a sharp eye on her.