A letter to her pooch from a relatively new mother. Oh silly Lilly…
Oh Lilly,
Your name rhymes with silly. And you are. Even at 7 years old, you are still a giant puppy. You go mental when the doorbell rings, greeting guests with your patented divebomb approach, your paws tap tap tap-dancing on the tiles. You treat each and every tennis ball as though it were your long lost love, and no, you won’t give it back, and why should you? Even if it spoils your own fun when we’re out throwing balls and you have to be coaxed and cajoled (and occasionally manhandled) into giving them back. You shed like a fucker in the summer and I curse you as tumbleweeds of black hair float down my hallways, but you know what? You are completely worth the hours of sweeping. Although I wouldn’t have said that when I was 8 months pregnant.
We’ve had you since you were 2 years old…
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