Littlest Sausage

I have become complacent. Complacent to the point of docility. This is not me. This is not me at all. I am never one to sit back and let everything wash over me purely because it is easier than tackling things head on. This is not right. This must stop. As of now, I will not be trodden on. Or walked over. I will do things I want to do with zeal and a lustrous glow. I will.

The weekend was nice. Not great, and nothing bad happened. It was just nice. I didn't do anything. Nothing of substance. The sun shone and I spent most of those 48 hours out in the garden or walking the dog. HRH Queen Tula. Also known as Munchkin or, occasionally, Stinky. She has a big leather football and and a squeaky toy. You throw the squaky toy for her and she runs and gets it. She won't let it go. Then she starts squeaking it in her mouth. This is where she comes right up to you and blocks your path, because she just knows that in that carrier bag is the football. It was once covered in black leather. Now it's saturated with doggie drool, there is very little leather left on it, and what is left has been partially detached, making it perfect for her to carry in her mouth. Along with the squeaky toy. Every now and then she'll drop the ball in front of you and switch her eyes between you and the ball, just waiting for you to kick it. We play this game for hours in the park, and I love it when she anticipates which way you're going to kick it. When you dribble it for a few steps, and she has no idea which direction the ball is going to fly, she runs round in a circle. This is the ideal time to kick the darn thing, when she's not standing directly in front of it - I have, once or twice, kicked it and hit her on the head with it. She's a mean goalie.

I really have nothing to say. After 2 days 'to myself', (ha ha HA - I WISH) I actually have nothing at all to say. Nada. I am completely dumbounded. Maybe tomorrow will be better.

Goodbye.