I thought she was laughing at something funny that I'd said, but no, she's just having another yawn and a stretch before settling down to another nap. And it's only three in the afternoon.
If you come over to our house, make sure you roll up your car windows. Missy loves a good parcel shelf.
Of course, all this bird killing is bound to make you tired, so it's up into the wardrobe to catch a few "z's". On a nice soft velvety quilt. Dammit.
Late at night, around 9:oopm, we'll hear the tinkling of the bell on her collar and my wife will say in a mocking tone; "See? It's like having a pet reindeer."
What's left of the foot-stool. Sure, it looks a mess, but I'd rather she shreds this than the sofa. I'll have to get some thread and neaten it up.
Hassling me while I write this typecast. Almost a Hemingwayesque photo.
But, back to the guy with the beer can story...
When my wife read this page, she said that she didn't just make a threat to throw a stone at his dog just for the sake of making a threat. It turns out that the guy had thrown one at my cat in an attempt to get her to make a run for it so that his dog would see her and give chase. I didn't see that because I was heading for the front door by this stage and he had already made his polite retort to my wife and kept walking by the time I got to the street. The moron.
Isn't there enough wrong with the world already without this type of crap occurring?
Anyhow, let us not dwell on beer-drinking idiots walking their dogs.
Looking this good takes a lot of rest and relaxation.
"I'm ready for my close-up, Mr. De Ville."
Thanks for reading, all!