Oh my fucking God. This new puppy is going to kill me.
I thought I was too old to get Phila four years ago. Now I am four years older, fatter, more exhausted and less motivated to put effort into doing the right thing with Louie. I am even too tired to do the wrong thing. Louie knows I'm weak. He probably thinks I'm just another omega, a damaged rescue living in the house. Which isn't completely wrong.
Louie is currently into vibing me when I am eating, and stealing my bras. Is this what life is like in women's prison? He steals my bras while I am at work, chews holes in them, and then buries them in the backyard with his other assorted treasures such as petrified corn cobs, squirrel bones and, I don't know, cigarettes that he bummed off of the guards at his old puppy mill in Iowa before he was rescued. I can only hope this behavior is meaningful to him in some primal way. A sort of vision board, perhaps, as part of his PTSD recovery from his hard beginnings. Maybe it was on doggie Pintrest.
Maybe Phila suggested it, even showed him where my bras are. She is always trying to get him in trouble. I recognize the look on Phila's face when Louie is barking at, say, NOTHING. Phila's look reminds me of when I brought my youngest son home from the hospital, crying (the both of us), and my five year old whispered gently, "Mom, do you really think this was a good idea to get the baby?"
My buried bras are endlessly amusing to the gardeners who find them around the yard and - from what I can decipher listening to them while hiding under my bedroom window - discuss the various items that my D cup could hold. If high school Spanish still serves, my bras can be repurposed for: grass clippings from the lawnmower, salsa and chips, car keys and - the suggestion that sends them into gales of laughter and pantomime - a double-headed rain hat.
Sometimes Phila goes outside and joins in on the laughter. So much for sisterhood.
What can I do? I cannot do my best at raising a new puppy and do my best at work and home and writing and campaigning and volunteering and all the other shit I pretend I do while I am actually on Facebook. This is an election year. I have to save my strength for pretending to love everyone. And for not allowing Louie to pee on Trump lawn signs.
When anyone is looking. Because that boy has a powerful stream that can reduce a Trump sign to mush.
Good boy, Louie.