Happy birthday to H, happy birthday to H, happy birthday to HHHHHHHHHHH, happy birthday to H.
Curry was cooked; candles were blown; cupcakes were scarfed. The H-tween becomes the H-teen.
Warm weather meant Boomer was out and about foraging the great expanse of mom and dad’s backyard. She even stayed out when it started to rain. The dog who won’t step through puddles, who is scared to walk across bridges, who turns around at the door when she sees it is wet outside, frolicked in a downpour.
Dad is the best. I just like being with him, joking with him, hearing his laugh. I hope he lives forever. You can do it dad.
Pictures from the night:
It’s raining it’s pouring the old man is snoring, bumped his head when he went to bed and couldn’t get up in the morning. (Don’t go away rain. Keep going. No work yayyyy please peas prrease.)
Stop being sick A. Just stop.
My writing here is going a bit like my writing at work: nowhere quick.
Perhaps because Mrs. Doubtfire is playing: gosh, what a brilliant movie. (Damn you TV.)
The pup is pooped.