Saoirse and I went on a delivery drive this afternoon. We dropped off a trunkful of donations at the thrift store and ran by the kids' house to hand over three big packs of baby wipes from the case I bought at Costco months ago. It was warm and breezy, and she got to ride with her head out the window the whole way. I couldn't get a photo of the look of ecstasy on her face while I was driving, but trust me, that was a happy dog.
I had been walking past that pile of donations every day since early February. It was almost as tall as my shoulder, and it brought my mood down every time I passed by it. I don't know whether finally taking it to the ARC will get me emotionally unstuck, but it feels possible now. Maybe.
Puppy and I didn't actually go inside the kids' house. The senior tuxedo cat (Moose) who does not like dogs came to the front door while we were there, and only the glass of the door kept Saoirse from having her face ripped off. So instead we stood outside and cuddled the baby for just a few minutes while we chatted. We were invited on a walk, and I had to decline. There wasn't wasn't cloud in the sky, and while most of humanity finds that cheerful, I find it agonizing. That giant ball of gas and fire has it out for me. I had been hiding under the eaves on the garage until it just wasn't enough shade anymore. The baby still got to go on her walk, and the wind modified her hairstyle charmingly. She looked like a classic 1970s London punk by the time she got home. Aw, she is taking after Auntie and Grandma.
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