Boxing Day is one of my favorite holidays.
It's not because of all the shopping. I only went out yesterday to get chips and dip with my last five bucks.
Nope, I like Boxing Day because we always have a barbecue, no matter the weather. There's nothing like a rack of ribs and a pile of homemade baked beans after a week of blond, bland food. They wake up the tastebuds like nobody's business.
Last night, we invited a couple of my old friends from high school, a couple I hadn't seen in 20 years. I was the maid of honor at Ed and Wendy's wedding 37 years ago. Thirty-seven years! That was over three husbands ago for me.
It was like old times. We talked about the old gang, reminisced about the good times at my mom's apartment jiving to the eight tracks. We even had a couple of spirited arguments with Ed who Wendy finally let out of the basement where he's been working as a mad scientist over the years.
All in all, it was a great time and I managed to score three excellent bottles of wine.
Then we went to bed.
It started with a gentle heave-ho, the sound that leaves me bolt upright, a reminder of my post-traumatic past with a dozen or so canines. Then the wondrous sound of projectile vomiting, not once but at least four times. It left me yearning for hardwood floors.
After we turned in, Finnigan decided to have his own after-party knocking down the recycle and upending the trash, and had a feast of rib bones slathered in hot sauce along with a side order of jalapeno-laced taters.
It must have gone down good at the time, but what came up, not so much.
Piles of the stuff.
"The jalapenos probably saved his life," Scott said, as he took his underwear to the door to let Finnigan out. Then he cleaned up a doggie bag full of Finnigan's leftovers.
Today, Finn is right as rain. He was chasing squirrels a few minutes ago.
Scott says Labs are great dogs if they live to see their third birthday.
Finnigan turns three in January.
Could have gone either way.