I recently acquired what I call, a cowgirl beagle named Sally, from a woman who rescues pups from certain death in Southern pounds. After my beloved Hannah died I mistakenly thought my puff ball Katy would appreciate a canine pal to hang with, so I fostered her, as I was broke from Hannah's expensive surgery.
Katy hates Miss Sally, cowgal extraordinaire, with a passion, as much as Miss Sally despises her. The fights have trickled down since Sally recovered from her mistaken belief that I was her fur child, but last night as I watched a biopic on Patti Smith and decided to chow down on some goldfish (the cracker not actual chordata), Sally howled "!Viva la revolucion!" and attacked. Katy, my little poodle/brittany scrapper, did not surrender. As I gulped my goldfish, scattered the box all over the floor and bed, screamed for my mother to get her a** in the room, attempted to crawl quickly on my post-surgical knee, fell over, got back up, fell down again, I reached the battle and managed to pull the bloody pair apart, while peeing my pants. Yes, that is correct. The combined excitement of having cable TV after approximately 6 years of not owning a TV, watching Patti Smith, and the blood and gnashing teeth, caused me to piddle all over myself.
In other news, it is New Years Eve day! I finished the celtic cable neckwarmer for my mom and have started one for myself with the softest most comforting yarn evah!
I have also decided to go on a Carribean cruise. It's nice to have completely unattainable desires.
Here is a lovely photo of my Grandmother, Molly Blumenthal, her mother-in-law (my ggrandmother Adelaide Stegemann, and Dorothy, her daughter (my great-Aunt), in the Park in Rochester, NY.
