Eight months ago Dan and I were dogless. Catless. No fish, guinea pigs, worm farms, turtles, monkeys, chickens, or llamas. We were empty nesters of the highest order. Then we found Wilson at Chatsworth Labradoodles — an irresistible ball of … Continue reading
When I was young and my kids were young and I had two good legs and one great heart, I used to make things. Much to the horror of my children, I sewed all their clothes. Then I made them … Continue reading
I’m shaking in my boots (or should I say, my leg cast) today. Hurricane Ike, the massive killer and daddy of all storms, is headed straight toward the Texas coast and way too close for comfort to the home of … Continue reading
I have seven more days glued to the couch, toes aimed toward the ceiling, before the first post-surgical evaluation of how my little fibula is doing. Seven days to make good with life on my back. Time in a Bottle … Continue reading
Two weeks ago tomorrow I fell through a crack in the earth. Things broke. A leg. The strap of a purse. A cell phone. A heart. The fall was swift, thorough. Complicated. Like Alice down the rabbit hole, there’s a … Continue reading
I’m off first thing in the morning to get a zipper put in my leg — a nice metal plate and a couple of screws, a few more weeks with my leg stuck in the air, three to four months … Continue reading
Wilson and Dan on the occasion of Beginner Puppy Class Graduation. Of course I was incredibly sad I couldn’t attend Wilson’s big day, but missing your puppy’s graduation because your leg is broken is just a simple suck-it-up moment, not … Continue reading
The saga of the leg goes on. I’m told I must have surgery on my dear little broken and misplaced fibula. SURGERY! We’re talking metal plates and screws. A manly scar. Another true grit moment. One more notch on the … Continue reading
Yes, this is MY BROKEN LEG!!! Before we go any further, let me explain that I’m on some nifty pain meds, so I’m not responsible for my actions. If only I’d known this in college. I could have gotten away … Continue reading
We’re having a discussion. I want Wilson to go to school to become a Therapy Dog. An elder statesman, so to speak. He could shake hands with the gentlemen and give slurpy kisses to all the babies. He could smile … Continue reading