In the Doghouse?

If you get a call from me anytime soon asking you to come bail me out of jail, here’s why:


Allow me to explain. I was driving home listening to the Ewan McGregor version of “Your Song” and I wanted to hear the whole thing so I drove around my subdivision a little bit. My husband called, so I started talking to him, and then I saw this dog. “Ohhh! Oooooooh! Oooooh!” I suddenly exclaimed into the phone. (He didn’t even question it. He’s used to me by now.)

I told him how old, fat and grey the dog was and that I wanted to pat it and feel its arthritic hip creak under my hand. I’m weird. But I love old dogs, and this one was soooo cute. I told him that I had to go because I just HAD to get a picture of the dog; “I don’t even care that its owner is outside.” He laughed and we got off the phone.

I drove past the house with my phone up to my ear, but on camera mode. I’m sneaky like that. I tried to take a picture. I failed. I drove down another street, then came back to the dog’s house going the other way, this time with the phone a little more obviously pointed toward the dog. I snapped the picture. I (as you can see, barely) got it! I continued driving down the street. I looked into my rearview mirror. The owner was staring at me intently. He didn’t look away before I turned back onto the street that leads to my house. It was more than a little scary.

Oops. Well, if worst comes to worst, this is probably the best reason ever to be incarcerated.

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