My son, Braddock, has gone to Grand Isle, Louisiana, to do some fishing. He left me for the first time with his nine month old Golden retriever pup, Sally. He’s never trusted me with her before.
Never mind that she’s the size of a grizzly bear and can knock me over like a feather.
This may be the closest I ever get to being a grandmother – or Glam-ma, which was the name I selected for myself for my future grandchildren. (The grandfather would have been grump-pa. Maybe that’s why he didn’t hang around.)
Sally and I are bonding. I don’t even care that she chewed up my garden shoes and everything else else on the back porch. What’s left of one of my shoes is hanging out of her mouth (below). Rebel and Lucky Dog are terrified and haven’t come out from under the bed except to eat.
Now, isn’t she adorable? I can’t understand why no one has had a party for us. I’ve thrown parties for everyone of my friends whose children have graduated from high school, college, married and had children. I think Sally and I deserve a party, darn it.