Today my husband turns thirty and my dog ate a bug.
About the latter, she probably didn't realize that cockroaches are virtually indestructible; being chewed hardly leaves a dent. No doubt Lynn merely thought she was doing her doggy duty.
I didn't realize any of this had gone down until I heard her retching behind me and all I could do was move the kitchen mat out of the way and try myself not to vomit. Eventually, a little puddle of some white fluid lay on the linoleum, along with the half crushed and still struggling roach, with Lynn looking all ashamed and weirded out, poor girl.
So that's how my morning began.
I gave Lynn a doggy biscuit to help her forget about the sensation of a creepy bug in her throat and threw the roach into the waste paper basket in a welter of paper towels, where no doubt he remains still, struggling bitterly and thinking that if only there were a nuclear explosion right now, only he would survive, leg or no leg.
About the former: ha! Not only is my husband now in the same decade as myself, but our ages appear to be only two years different, until November, when for a few short months I will appear to be three years older. I know it's only vanity, but damn it, at least now he can stop teasing me about how I robbed the cradle!
