Plodding

Once upon a time, I saw a poem, tattooed on a fellow's arm that has stayed with me.  It caught my eye because it was unexpected, but stayed with me because, well, it makes me cry a little.  By Samuel Beckett, it goes something like this:

Hand in hand with equal plod they go.  In the free hands - no.  Free empty hands.  Backs turned both bowed with equal plod they go.  The child hand raised to reach the holding hand.  Hold the old holding hand.  Hold and be held.  Plod on and never recede.  Slowly with never a pause clod on and never recede.  Backs turned.  Both bowed.  Joined by held holding hands.  Plod on as one.  One shade.  Another shade.

Happy 2nd Anniversary / 10th Birthday, BoBo!

Birthday girl in the morning.

Two years ago today, we brought then- eight year old Bodacious home as a foster dog.  Actually, we brought her to the North Haven garage and... and then afterwards, we brought her home and she immediately pooped on the living room floor.

Between vet visits and dog sitters and toys (and no toys!), it's been a long road with Ms. BoBo.  But it's a road we wouldn't trade for anything.

Two years and eight pounds* later, she's clearly a foster fail, and an irreplaceable part of the family.  :)

* BoBo got the doggy equivalent of Jello salad on account of those eight pounds.  (Carrots in a chicken broth base with watermelon "candles".)  It's tastier-sounding when you're a dog.

What, what is this?

Oh boy!

A slice went to Singer.