I love her.
I really do.
She is practically perfect.
And usually, even when she's not perfect,
she's so cute it doesn't matter a bit.
Like when she was a puppy and went potty in the house.
Or like when she had an upset belly after being spay and
had explosive poopies all over our bedroom floor in the
middle of the night. We figured it out and held her close
until she felt better.
Or when we experimented with leaving the house without
putting her in her crate and she ate through the duvet
cover, comforter, top sheet, fitted sheet, and mattress
pad. We gave her a kiss, got them fixed and realised she
wasn't ready to be left along without being in her crate.
But this. This is just NAST-EE.
Nasty. Nasty. Nasty.
I was sitting on the couch last night, watching TV past
my bedtime, when I heard something in the hall.
I got up to take a peak and there was Norah. Cute
and looking pretty innocent. Must of been hearing
things, I thought. But then I heard it again, and this
time when I got up to check, she was in my office, just
inside the doorway. Looking rather guilty, I might add.
I flipped on the light and that's when I saw The Nast.
She had pushed the litter box away from the corner and
...You can figure out the rest. EWWWWWWWWWWW!
It's going to be days -- maybe weeks -- before I can
bring myself to exchange kisses with her. That's so
(Of course, I still love you, Norah.)