Poppy and her hub are on vay-kay in Cancun, so I've been babysitting her menagerie, including the ferrets, Stushdon and Shnockies (I think, or that might be the other ferret she had). And I gotta tell you, if they didn't reek to high heaven, ferrets are a pretty good time. I let them run around in their room, and they chirped and wiggled and tussled and tried to get in the leg of my yoga pants. Good times on a Friday night.

Their one dog, on the other hand, hasn't been as easy. He's an old guy with bad hips, and once you let him out, it's a crapshoot whether you'll be able to get him back up the stairs. Last night was one of those nights, and after about 45 minutes, I decided I'd leave him on the stoop between the upstair and downstairs, thinking he'd be so exhausted he'd just hang out there for the night. He didn't, of course, so Hub's mom called me in a panic this morning because she in all her 100-pound soaking wet glory couldn't get him upstairs to go outside. We eventually got him up and out, but I left him in the house tonight when I went over there. If Hub's mom doesn't hate me for this morning, I'm sure she will if she walks in to a house full of dog crap.

But you know what I noticed last night? Even though I yelled at the poor bastard once thinking that might startle him into moving, my patience never waivered into DefCon territory. I'd kinda like to attribute that to Dad, because as we all know, Dad had to be a patient man lest he ended up burying Mother in the backyard, and we also know that I tend to have a rotten temper when I want to. Maybe it's something he left me when he went. Or maybe it's the drugs.