A few months ago, Husband and I went to Wayside Waifs and picked out a cute little lethargic puppy that we named Orlee. Just as we were checking out, they mentioned that she had a teeny tiny cold and to keep her on antibiotics for two weeks.
By the end of the two week medication period, the cute little puppy had grown legs as long as Usain Bolt and charged around our house and yard just as fast.
At this point, Orlee is 58 pounds of pure speed and muscle. When she jumps up on me – which is every damn day – her paws reach my shoulders and she looks me in eye as if to say, “I’m in charge now.”
Yesterday, as I was in the yard on all fours weeding a flower bed, a Mack truck hit me head on. I hurtled backwards, glasses flying and somehow, landed in a seated position, where staring at me from her own seated position was Orlee. She wagged her tail, dipped her head and took off running in a wide circle ready for round two of the funnest game she’d found since she moved in with two old people.