Today, much like most any other day, we had our fair share of tears.
When we didn't get the waffle we wanted, there were tears. When we didn't get to sit by cousin Kalli to eat? Tears. When Mom came home from town to find spaghetti noodles and Parmesan cheese sailing haphazardly through the air and landing on every available surface in the kitchen?
Believe you me, there were tears.
But the biggest, saddest tears? They were reserved for this guy.
Claire was waiting in the car, and when I climbed in with this. . .uh, poodle, she started laughing. The whole way home she sang "Buddy. Funny. Buddy. Funny." from the back seat.
In Miss Stylist's defense, it seems the whole thing is entirely our fault. Turns out we are somewhat neglectful. A poodle isn't supposed to run wildly through a pasture of June grass, you know. Or fetch dead fish out of the canal. Or. . well anyway. Most dogs of this sort are not typically bounding through the countryside. I am now aware that most poodles typically waltz out of the back door, discreetly use the potty, after which they should be quickly whisked back into the castle.
Guess we'll have to work on that.
And eight weeks between haircuts? Gasp! Four to six weeks at most, please.
While Claire thought the whole thing hysterical, the other girls weren't so amused. I prepared for the worst when I opened the door and let him run in.
The first thing I heard was Courtney let out a big laugh and yell, "Look! It's a rat!"
And then? Tears. From the peanut gallery. Weeping, wailing, and crocodile tears. The whole works. And a blue, polka dot bow? Talk about adding insult to injury.
Poor guy. As if a bad hair day isn't enough. Try having one when you live in a house full of girls.
For the record, it's all part of the routine.
The tears, I mean.
Crying over waffles? Just fine. Angry mommies and seating arrangements gone bad? Expected. Bad doggy hair day? Bring out the Kleenex.
An absolute, certifiable disaster.
I can't wait til prom night.