The dogs officially moved out yesterday. Had I not had one of those days where I hit the ground at warp speed and then fell into bed an exhausted shell of a woman I might have grieved.
But. Here is why I didn't feel sorrow when entering an empty, quiet house:
1.) Well. There's the crazy to-do list that drove me.
2.) The dogs came over to visit.
3.) Feral, bless his dear, sweet little kitty heart, decided he'd act bigger than life. First, he left me a small package, likely because he's a) become a litter snob b) his "water closet" is housed in our water closet/utility room/bathroom. And yesterday there was some dog laundry. And hearing the sounds coming from the dryer made me think I might want to find a quiet spot to do my business in, too. Clanging and clunking and an occasional moanlike shifting made me think that we were in a Bones episode.
So I'm hoping Feral's delicate mental health compelled him leave a deposit for me...rather than litter preference, or passive aggressive punishment for something I'm not even aware I did to offend him.
Oh, and then the precious kitty hoarked up a few hairballs for me as well. Imagine, if you will, how much I was enjoying the idea of domesticated animals in my home.
4) The dogs are visiting again. They will come to my house to hang out while we are at work because the apartment below our daughter has a family of 4 little kids. And until the dogs get used to kid noises & decided days at Grandma's would be better for all concerned. And I do have a morning peanut butter knife. So there we go.
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