As I watched my 50 pound puppy lean over the bed at 4 a.m. and barf yet another dishcloth, I began to question my sanity. Had I finally lost what was left of the marbles rattling around in my brain? Had my Trump Derangement Syndrome hit fevered pitch, and turned me into the crazy lady who pays for dog food with pennies? At 63, what was I thinking inviting a chocolate lab puppy to join the roster. Did I really need a third dog? Me, with a wonky hip and knee combo, a husband who can barely walk thanks to old football injuries, and an errant one and a half year old Pearl, the Mini Aussie from Hell who acts like a sergeant major scaring small children as they dismount the school bus. It was Scott's fault. After we lost Finnigan, he claimed he couldn't do another big dog, so we got Pearl. Then he started literally bawling because he missed the big nose giving him a wet willy while he sipped his Scotch at night. Truth be told, I missed the big goof, too, and I eagerly a
More than a million served!