This morning as we walked to the garage, our rescued pup, Juno, galloped around the corner of the house and sat down on the porch to be petted. She usually waits by the kitchen door to launch her ambush, refusing to join the others on their morning rounds. She's about six months old now. Growing like a weed. I don't partake of our special lovefest in the morning, because I don't want to smell like dog all day. Besides, Juno likes to lick the fresh Bath and Body Works Vanilla Bean lotion from my arms and hands. That can't be good for her. And it's a waste of good lotion.
I reached down to give her a little pat before saying, "See you later, Alligator," our special parting words. The wavy, silky black hair of her neck was wet like her canine companions had tried to chew off her bright red collar. "Yuck! Later, Alligator." I followed The Pony through the garage door and into the car. "I think Juno has been play-fighting with the big dogs." We snapped our seatbelts.
"Your theory is lent credence by the fact that she came from the front yard."
Reason #167 that my son will be a subject of ridicule throughout his high school career. Not that he will notice.