Not in the womb, but shortly thereafter, I began making fun of old fat men with toy dogs. Now I'm am a dues paying member of that elite fraternity.
Charley, is Mrs. T's dog. She came with specific instructions that if it were cold, dark, inclement or inconvenient I could take care of her. I have a new best friend.
Several weeks go, she surprised me during her morning constitutional, with a head up, chest out gift of a hoof to ankle bone of one of the neighborhood deer. She was incredibly proud of herself. A quick search of the property yielded no other potential gifts.
Sunday afternoon, Mrs. T was away,the doors were open so the animals could come and go and the dogs outside, the papers were on my lap, a dumb movie was on the telly, and I tried valiantly to take a nap.
It was one of those afternoons, I'd just drift off and the phone would ring. It was one thing after another. I persevered though. Finally, dead to the world, all hell broke loose.
The dogs were, best as I could tell, on my chest reenacting the battle of Fredericksburg. Instead, Charley had found more deer bits. This time a rear haunch, and she wasn't sharing.
Attempting to separate the dogs from the bones was going to be a near death experience, and I wanted no part of it. Mrs. T came home, saw the carnage, and laid into poor innocent me. Who's the parent around here? If I've heard that once....
Brunswick stew anyone?