It was that time of the year again. The boys would be home from the holidays, and create a ruckus around the house. They drag me along for their silly games and picnics. I hate carrying heavy baskets all the time, and lounging on the prickly grass.
The mug-heads think I enjoy picking up the ball every time they throw it. Why can’t they be more careful about it. How many balls would have been lost, if it was not for my alertness, and the meat treat that follows?
I long to be back
relaxing in the kennel