Snoring

You are sprawled out, lying on your right side in your sleeping area in my room, thankfully not snoring. Your snoring is nothing short of thunderous; the walls and windows shake. And on more than one occasion I have been forced to escape to a different room so that I may catch some much needed shut eye.

We had an eventful day. 70 degrees in the middle of December. Ok LA, I get it.

I left you with a bone laced with peanut butter while I went to the farmers market for some microgreens. You don’t care for baby kale, and that is really just the beginning of our dietary differences. But I understand, since I am a block of butter away from becoming a vegan.

We went to visit my maternal grandparents who rest in Forest Lawn. I know you’re asking, “isn’t that where Clark Gable, Walt Disney, and some other big Hollywood people of the past are buried as well?” Then answer is yes, but it’s a huge sprawling area that is very easy to get lost in and so I do not know the exact location. It isn’t a very ominous cemetery at all, especially basked in the blindingly bright LA winter sunshine. Rolling hillsides of green and a view of the San Gabriel mountains ain’t a bad place to rest. Thanks must be given as well for you helped do some landscaping around the grave stone by eating some of the grass in front. So thanks for that.

Then you had to wait for me to pick up tamales at this joint I’d heard about. You did not share my disappointment that they were out of the “rajas con queso,” which forced me to try to the pineapple one, which was terrible. Texture was just off. You would not have been interested in it anyway, seeing as there’s no meat in it.

You then came with me to the dress alterations lady and were reasonably well behaved. As a reward for the day of generally good behavior I gave you a big ol’ bone. You went to town, your head craning every which way to get a good angle, and the world around you seemed to fade away. It was just you and the bone. Nothing else mattered.

I am exhausted. Your potty schedule is what drives the rhythm of my live.