Brooke here. It was a glorious Christmas.
I grew up in Massachusetts and, like all supercilious and self-important displaced Northerners, I have nothing but scorn for how Southerners deal with the quote snow unquote.* But, while we got a very respectable snowfall, I feel terribly guilty about a white Christmas. Absolutely beautiful in every way, without question; however, the father of one of my childhood friends drove a snowplow and she cursed us blue if we ever said something about wanting snow on Christmas, since that meant her father would need to spend all day away from his family (opening presents might have been involved; we didn’t press the issue).
Back on the ranch, Rottweiler Prime is now thoroughly addicted to painkillers. The vet swore up and down that doggie Vicodin doesn’t trigger the same dependency in canines as in humans, but Cutter John is a bit… angsty… when he doesn’t get his fix. I forgot to give him a second dose of his medication before bed, and couldn’t figure out why he kept dragging me out of bed and into the kitchen.
“Your water bowl is full! You’ve had dinner! You’ve been out! What’s wrong?!?”
I’m a little concerned as we’ve run out of one of the painkillers in his cocktail, and what with the holiday and the Sunday and the snow we’ve been unable to get to it refilled. We were out doing holiday stuff today and realized we were running a couple of hours behind:
“Crap,” I said. “The dog is coming down and the puppy is probably hungry.”
“Wonderful,” Brown said. “The house is going to look like a Sex Pistols photo shoot.”
* In my defense, it’s not just Northerners. An acquaintance from Russia woke up when her boyfriend came back to bed and asked why he wasn’t headed off to work. He said work had been closed for the day due to snow. She looked outside and said, “Snow? Where?”