Without an Ounce of Sense…

So we rescued a dog one Christmas; our youngest son, who was five, had just broken his leg, his uncle was living with us, he’d  left his wife and lost his job (the uncle not my son…just in case you were wondering) his father (my son’s not his uncle’s) had lost his job too, and his sister (my son’s) had fallen out of the van and looked as though she had been shot between the eyes.  More about that another day.  This all happened within 48 hours of Christmas Day and is one of those, “what do you expect with 4 under 6” moments that kept our lives real.  Sustained by this adrenalin rush we welcomed Spike into our family and promptly changed his name to Watson.  Our 9 month old, 24 lb, Schnoodle, entered our lives without  an ounce of sense.  He could not fetch, or carry, give his paw or beg, catch cheese (hurray) or speak; he could sit and stay, ask to go out, play gently with the children and sleep through the night.  He cowered when we shouted, peed on my herbs, and declared war on the vacuum.  He rid the garden of squirrels, fought with rats, and was afraid of water.  He guarded his family faithfully for sixteen years until he went deaf and lived out the remainder of his days in peace.

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