Goldenroo

My chronological #1 dog turned 10 homo sapien years old on the 10th. My wife had to remind me as we were going to bed. I felt terrible. Didn't even get her a special hat to wear.
She wasn't even supposed to live to be 8, according to the dimbulb Minotian veterinarian who diagnosed her heart murmur.
There's a silly word, murmur.
Kind of like dik-dik.
What else?
yo-yo?
B.B.
can-can.
fiddle faddle.
froufrou.
poopoo.
Walla Walla.
anyhoo.

SOMEONE explain to me why my son can take a nap and sleep through a thunderstorm belching thunder right outside his bedroom window, but put him down, dead asleep from rocking him, at night, e can hear the molecules from your finger brushing up against the molecules of the doorknob?

My Dad and I spent another weekend day slapping paint against the walls in the sunroom. A bit easier today, not having to strain to reach the roof, though getting the parts above the baseboards was a little hard on the knees. At least it was twenty degrees cooler than earlier in the week, with a nice breeze coming through the windows. And we enjoyed a lovely lunch out on Ryan's tree house. Caulk and window trim next weekend and we might be somewhere approaching done with this project.

Ryan had root beer last week. Doesn't seem any worse for wear.

The last two nights I've dreamed about having back surgery (and feeling it) with Tom Bosley (Mr. Cunningham) as lead doctor and watching World War III from space.
So g'night.