Oh, sweet baby. You make me wish I had money to buy stock in these terribly essential household items:


You probably wish you could buy stock in human whining.  You listen to me complain enough about dog hair on things so much you’d be wealthy.

Oh sweet precious Tonks, I wish you would understand that when we’re outdoors building things like, oh…say…a storage shed, that you would play with your toys. Not our tools.


And you, dear sweet puppy of my heart, probably wish we wouldn’t be so preoccupied about cleaning up what comes out of your backside.  You always look at us like we stole something of yours when we clean up after you.

Lovely Tonks, sometimes I wish you wouldn’t make doggie snoring noises on the floor of my office while I’m writing late night blog posts.  I get the giggles when you start running after rabbits in your sleep and it breaks my concentration.


And you, my furry sixty pounds of huggable dog love, probably wish I didn’t snore sometimes when you sleep on our bedroom floor at night.  Or get up and go to the bathroom, disturbing your sleep because it’s impossible for you to know a human is walking around the house without you checking them out.  We’re horrible like that, aren’t we Tonks?

But after a year, I’ve learned your rhythms and am quite the lint brush aficionado.  And you have learned to ask when you’d like to go outside and say hello to us in doggy howls when we come home.  And I have learned that when I hold your perfect face in my hands and look into your beautiful brown eyes that you can’t help but lick me three or four times just to tell me about your love.

And I love you right back, Tonks.  We cohabit and have learned to live together, in spaying or in health, for richer times and poorer situations where you tear things up, until death parts us.


Find me at the Red Dirt Chronicles

Best, Red Dirt Kelly