The alarm went off at 3:45, but rain said “Sleeeeeep in”, drowning out Manboy’s “Wakey, wakey. Play with snaky.” My dogs don’t sleep in. Tamale did–bless her. Omo and Fab, the detergent brothers, don’t sleep in and are used to early-morning fun.
If I wag the walk, I wake to this:
Sigh. Tonight I’ll have to re-stuff the plushie. Again. They are in their monkey phase, giving the wombat a rest. The wombat’s stuffing is brown; I often panic thinking someone’s ass exploded.
I rarely toss the white blood. Why? The sport is the dissection. Most of my plushies are garage sale and charity shop finds. They come pre-loved and with smells the hounds can detect. Mmmm, bebbeh spew. Milky, sour-y goodness, only a bum-sniffer could love.
Pet toys here cost $$. I prefer to bring new ones back from the US. My luggage squeaks.
I missed my train. It would’ve been the perfect time to compose and read others’ posts, but the rain the morning translated into Katese as “No laptop!”
I had the perfect set up, too. (One way to lose weight is to cut out half of your thighs in the photo.)
I’m rarely wordless, so here’s to Wordy Wednesday.
Sent from my iPhone, toots. So expect to paragraph breaks.