Just a quickie: I think the dogs are glad to be home. So far, there’s spilled water on the floor, kibble dotting the hallways, and already? Four trips in and out of the house. To bark. At something. I’m not really sure what. Could be the moths, which for some reason drive Horace batty. Flies? Eaten. Misquitos? Delicious. Moths? Hunt them down, and scare them away with loud, repetative barking.

Which is funny, as Gauge, who is my resident Loud Mouth, is having none of it. He could care less at this point that the other two morons are outside, barking for all their worth. I cannot decide if he just missed me, and wants to be near me, especially when the other two are not vying for my attention; or, if he’s just so damn thrilled to have air conditioning again.

I must admit, I missed them. The loud water slurping from the bathroom at all hours, the sound of thier clicky little paws running rampant through the house. However. I’m sitting here, watching Horace, who thinks I’m not looking, pull all the delicate white laundry out of it’s basket, pile it onto the floor, and slowly lower himself onto it. It’s moments like this, watching his hips lower with aching slowness, that I notice his age; how much he’s slowed down.

I should be pissed about the laundry; the fur embedding itself into lilly pulitzer white polos, and undies. His claw marks leaving snags in a couple of bras. But honestly, seeing him as an old man today put things into a whole new perspective.

I can be pissy about the fur tomorrow. I can always buy new bras. Hell. Lucy ate more furniture than Hoarce could damage in my underwear any day of the week.

Tonight, I think I’ll just hope he feels up to climbing the stairs, and coming to fur-up the bed with me.