And we were living on our boat for the summer.
Our ten-year-old Lhasa Apso, Mikhail, rescued in 2014, and named after the great Russian ballet dancer, Mikhail Baryshnikov, has a hard time doing what should be done. He gets a dessert spoon or more of cooked pumpkin in his food. Canned pumpkin will do.
Mikhail weighs in at fifteen pounds.
Our eight-year-old Toy Poodle, aptly named Peanut as that’s his size, joined the family in July of this year. I can’t fully determine what sets him off, but I’m uber-careful in measuring his with-grain crunchies with some high-quality wet food.
Peanut weighs a whopping five pounds.
Our one-year-old Poodle mix is a rambunctious puppy named Jasper, who joined the family in August. He tends to get diarrhea. Sadly, he explores under bushes, and who knows what he picks up before we can intervene. He stabilized with his brand of with-grain-crunchies plus prescription gastrointestinal food mixed in.
Jasper weighs twelve pounds.
As summer came to an end, it got dark earlier and earlier. It was a rush after dinner to get the three “toileted” and ready for bed. I’d take the toy poodle and hubby the other two. He’d take off one way, and I took my time going the other way.
We’d meet back at the boat.
Halters removed and stored with leads for our morning walk; the conversation veers to –
is all well in poop land
I’d say-
“Well, I managed to get two pees and a poo out of Peanut (the toy poodle.) How did you do?”
His reply? “Great.”
Me again — “is that the total of your walk? I give you two sentences, and you give me one word?”
Him — “I’m much more efficient than you in communicating.”
I self-censor my reply as the curtain falls on Act One, Scene Two of a play called–
I Killed My Husband Because He Wouldn’t Tell Me Whether The Dog Had Pooped.
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