It’s definitely a strange weekend when the highlight is having your dog finally poop at 10 o’clock at night.
Wait, let me back up.
The weekend started out pleasantly enough. We went to go see Iron Man and enjoyed the heck out of the front row (dang opening night and million other people who had the same awesome idea!). It was a terrifically fun movie and I’m fairly inclined to go see the sequel they so ham-handedly dangled in front of us at the end.
After the movie Wes and I craved ice cream so we became intimately acquainted with the challenge of locating a purveyor of iced and creamy sweets at almost midnight. We settled on a Red Robin mud pie and had a blast playing hangman on the back of a receipt while eating ice cream.
When we went home we checked on the puppy and discovered that he was still sick. He hadn’t been keeping any food or water down all day and we were a tad concerned. When we saw how he was acting we knew he had eaten another rock or something (we’re certified experts now.)
He was sick until late Sunday night. We came home from a surprise Mother’s Day dinner for my mom and let him and his canine cousin out of the kennel to stretch their legs. Doc promptly went to work and about five minutes later the rock that was causing all the problems was on the ground once more. Ashes to ashes and all that.
Such sweet relief! I know it’s weird that my dog’s poop is the highlight of my weekend but when your dog stops eating and the only thing that will make him feel better is to get it out of his system you’ll totally understand. Doc is now 100% back to normal and eating like a vacuum again.
I had a definite lowlight this weekend as well. I was driving home when the airhead in front of me slammed on her brakes to avoid hitting a mama duck and her row of ducklings. She caused a three-car fender bender and a motorcyclist to break his leg. I was right behind her and as such was privy to the whole thing.
Tell me time does not slow down when you know you’re about to witness an accident because darn it if I didn’t see every single spark that flew from that motorcycle as it skidded across the road.
Afterward, the ditz who caused all the trouble told the police officer, “There was a duck in the road, what was I supposed to do?” Well, for starters, you could have paid enough attention that you wouldn’t have to slam on your brakes, numb-nuts. That probably would have been a good start.
I mean, this wasn’t a stealth duck. She didn’t creep in from the wings with her gaggle of super-ninja ducklings intent on teaching us a metal-crunching lesson for building houses over her nesting grounds. This was a normal effing duck who waddled across an entire lane and was halfway through another lane before this moron decided she’d probably better stop. Honestly, if 1-week old ducklings have better reflexes than you, it may be time to consider hanging up your keys.
So, after a trying weekend involving a sick dog and a motorcycle accident I am back and in scathing form. The dog’s fine, the motorcyclist only broke his leg in three places, and the ducklings will live to see another day. I’m sure the biker lost a lot of sleep wondering about that.