Saturday morning, house of cramps

Friday night, hooray! No need to wake up early so let's stay up late...

Saturday morning, 6AM, oh yeah I forgot... Ike wakes up at 6 every day.
R is kind of awake so goes to take care of him...

Saturday morning 8AM, R comes in with Ike hoping we can switch who's sleeping and who's keeping Ike happy.

I am agreeable, but slow to get out of bed. This leads to everyone in the bed. This doesn't happen too much, so Ike is excited and being so cute we are filled with gratitude at what a nice phase of our life this is.

Backflash!
Thursday, R got home, let Frank (who keep in mind is a very elderly dachshund now) outside. Normally, he transacts a little business and comes back to the door to be let in immediately because if there's one thing Frank is on time for, it's dinner. This time though, he's gone and can't be found. One time before, Frank squeezed under the gate that separates front yard from back...and apparently lounged around the front yard or at least had returned to the front yard by the time we looked for him. But that escape has been walled off (a 5 inch high wall, impenetrable to 13-yr old dachshunds). Frantic, R looks everywhere for him, asks the neighbors if they've seen him, but he's nowhere. Returning defeated and overwhelmed, R finds Frank waiting at the back door ready to resume his day. Curious, she explores the backyard more thoroughly and discovers the board that covers up the crawl space to the house is ajar. (how can a door be a jar...never mind)

So that's the working theory - Frank went exploring in there Thursday.


Back to Saturday morning 8AM, I'm getting out of bed now and taking Ike so R can sleep. Frank trots in to the bedroom holding (and here, be thankful I am not taking advantage of all the visual options of this medium), a mummified, pancaked, squirrel. Frank thinks he's Indiana Jones, the great excavator of tombs.

I know some pets bring dead critters by pretty regularly, but Frank is not such a pet. He doesn't realize he's a dog. But however well-buried his instincts are, he still has them down in his stegosaurus-sized brain somewhere.

OK R, take Ike for a second and I will put on gloves extract this WWII-era corpse from Frank's mouth (Nobody will be accepting Frank kisses for a long time) without getting its cooties on anything.

Ike decides this is as good a time as any to throw up on his mother. Presumably not in reaction to his gross dog, but just because he does that sometimes these days.

So here we are, two covered in vomit and two playing tug-of-war with a stiff corpse. Still, this year *is* a very nice phase in our lives. Hopefully, nothing too gross happens the rest of the day. Big day planned - Isaac's first haircut and then an Isaacless trip to the ballpark to watch the SF Opera simulcast of Il Trovatore.