Take My Dog. Please.

When my doctor told me that I need to take it as easy as possible at home, I bet she didn’t have this in mind…

Last week, Jim is just wrapping up bath time with Bastien. I am busy downstairs and hear a sort of tapping or scratching sound, but just assume it is some fun bedtime ritual I am not privy to going on upstairs. Just then, Jim shouts down to me that he thinks Mazzy might be up to something outside. So I open up the back door. And well, sure enough, dear Mazzy has all but dismantled the (new, expensive) downspout. In fact, I catch her in the very act of RIPPING IT OFF OF THE HOUSE. But not, my dear friends, NOT before also trapping a bleeding chipmunk inside. I’ll just assure you that it wasn’t pretty. Poor Jim was left to deal with the aftermath. And THAT is why she is not Man’s Best Friend.

Just a hunch, my doctor didn’t have this in mind either:

Picture this, if you will: We had just stepped out front for a little fun with the kids this afternoon (we=Bastien and friends Heidi and Carly + mom, Stephanie). There we are, innocently feeding the lovely neighbor horses some carrots. How peaceful, how serene, right? When what to my wondering eyes should appear, but a crazed Mazzy, comes flying out of nowhere… dashing wildly into the neighbors’ yard, invisible fence be damned. Running and peeing and keeping a long, safe distance from me–the screaming lunatic pregnant woman affectionately known as her MASTER. Shortly, she bursts into the horse pen, where said horses all try to trample her, one and two and four at a time–looks of terror rightly flooding their faces. At this point, perhaps she gets her wits about her, or maybe it’s just a moment of bad judgment on her part, and she finally does come to me. But not, my dear friends, NOT before she stops to roll in the stinking horse piles. And THIS is why she has never been called Woman’s Best Friend, either.