My Brother’s Menagerie: In Which my Little Brother Flexes his Creative Muscles (and Something About Pets that aren’t Dogs or Cats)

My brother is a crafty, creative genius. Long before Etsy was a thing, my brother was hand-making jewelry, whipping up delicious creations in the kitchen and helping me build the most elaborate indoor forts known to man.

Most recently, he’s been found hand-making hamster cages.

Hamstervision: Homemade Hamster Cages and Other Pet Palaces

My hamster spent his entire life trying to create his own condo in my dresser. My brother turned an old television into a hamster apartment so his didn’t have to. He called it “Hamstervision.”

We grew up with hamsters. We started with a gerbil named Axel Rose, followed by a hamster named Jon Bon Jovi. The string of hamsters in our lives ended with my little furry lover, Romeo, who ironically ended his own life by trying to escape his cage, Houdini-style.

My brother’s menagerie was always a little more exotic than mine, though.

  • The chameleon that I may have terrified into losing it’s tail… (Seriously, this was the most horrifying thing on the planet. My brother told me to hold the damn thing by its tail…so I did…and the next thing I knew, I was holding a tail…but no chameleon).
  • The sickly turtle that couldn’t get used to living in a terrarium, even under a heat lamp. It was part rescue mission/part lost cause.
  • The hamster that we mated with our cousin Rachel’s hamster…who proceeded to eat all of the babies (Rachel’s hamster, not my brother’s hamster…or Rachel.)
  • The cannibalistic snail that ate my snail…and my replacement snail – jerk.
  • The pair of hermit crabs that lived in various seashells in the short time we had them.
  • The spunky dalmatian that was born in a thunderstorm and captured all of our hearts (including the old-man dog and old-man cat that dominated our household zoo).
  • The frogs that I apparently have zero recollection of whatsoever (but my brother assures me that they existed).

You can see, he’s always been quite the animal lover. Me?

Okay, fine. I loved animals too.

I haven’t had my own pet since Sammy Fish (my finned college bestie, who hated car-travel but had to suck it up at least four times a year). And according to Brian, I won’t have one for quite some time. Sad face Although we have discussed our very own exotic menagerie…and maybe a bunny named Bunnicula.

My brother, on the other hand, has had a string of delightful pets, including several hamsters and my newest little furry nephew, Biscuit the Hedgehog.

Biscuit the Hedgehog

Biscuit the Hedgehog – My spiky nephew currently lives in a cage built out of storage cubes

Whenever my brother gets a new pet, he feels the need to really create a home for it. But those store-bought cages just don’t do it for him. So he BUILDS HIS OWN PET PALACES. He builds cool toys for them to play with. He basically does some crazy juju magic to create these genius inspired homes for his fur babies. I absolutely adore him.

homemade hamster cages

Roxxi the Hamster lives in this china-cabinet-turned-hamster-palace. Note the details…like the cork cabin and the cork bridge.

So there you have it, my friends.

My brother is a creative genius and has the coolest pets around. With the coolest pet palaces around.

Would you build unique homes for your pets? Do you have any cool pets? Do you have any ridiculously crazy pet stories? Am I the only person in the world who de-tailed a chameleon?

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

Brian Shares Saturday: He’s Back in Full Force

Well, let’s start with a little something Brian did NOT share, but he certainly made his opinion known.

Drunk Puppy

So Ash from That Ash Girl sent me this video. And it was the cutest fucking thing I’ve ever seen. So watch it. Watch it now.

And I felt the need to show Brian, because it was (I repeat) the cutest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.

Here was the conversation that followed:

Me: wants
Brian: that video played a “get a free bible, mormon commercial”… haahaha! People came to my door in college with the same thing so I asked them for a bible written in Hebrew… which is why I have a bible all written in Hebrew in my bookshelves
Me: seriously?
Me: Secondly, that’s all you have to say about the SERIOUS cuteness of that horribly named pup?
Brian: I think it was drunk.  It kept wobbling around and falling down.
Brian: ?
Me: You!
Brian: That puppy was CLEARLY drunk off his ass! He couldn’t string together a coherent sentence… probably couldn’t say the alphabet, let alone backwards…couldn’t walk a straight line…probably couldn’t touch his paws to his nose. He even had that reddish nose that some chronic alcoholics get.  Drunk!
Me: Unacceptable.
  A few minutes later…
Me: So can we get one?

He never did respond to that…

Here’s the dog tag that we’ll get our future pup who will NOT be named Tebow.

If you can read this I will lick you funny dog tag


More of Our Future Pets

The Lizard Attacking a Grape

Brian almost didn’t send this to me…but I was standing over his shoulder while he was trolling through Reddit. And when he watched this I said, “You better send that to me!” and of course, he did, because it would not have been nice if he did not. And then I would not have made him a delicious Irish Breakfast the next day with all the Irish meaty goodness and everything fried in the same pan, even the tomatoes and onions and eggs.

But he did send it, and so like I do on Sundays at Brian’s mom’s, I made an Irish Fry and it was delightful. Whoever invented Irish sausages (bangers, white pudding, and black pudding) should seriously win an award. It’s kind of funny because I eat all the delicious Irish food and drink tea with milk when I’m with Brian’s Irish family and they always forget that I’m Irish…and they say things like, “Are you sure you’re Polish and not Irish?” And then I tell them that I’m Polish AND Irish. And I love breakfast. And breakfast sausage. And tea kind of grew on me (though I still love me some coffee Monday-Friday and sometimes Saturday when I’m home with my Keurig and not at Brian’s mom’s house.)

Anyways…sorry for the LONG distracted ramble. (Not really.)

Pet Dolphins on Vacation in Florida

So, right after Christmas, Brian was talking to his dad about how he has several vacation days that he needs to use by February…And his dad was all, “You should come visit!” (Brian has made his way down to Florida during many a January/February to visit his dad & get some Vitamin D/warm weather…so this wasn’t a total out of the blue idea.)

Brian made the mistake of mentioning this to me…And I got so excited. I have a love affair with Florida that cannot be matched. (Obviously, we’re going. I mean…you get an idea into my head…and it sort of happens.) This will be my 8th trip to The Sunshine State. The 3rd in a 12 month period. Speaking of Florida, check out the article that Brian sent me about Disney World.

So Brian sent me this awesome picture of dolphins in Google Maps from Marco Island (where we’ll be going). My pet dolphins miss me. They want to play in the canals with us again! I just know it.

Our Pets: Baby Sloth and Baby Platypus

If you didn’t read my sonnet to Yelp, go do that now. I can wait…

OK, now, if you don’t know about our future pet sloth…you’ve got a lot of reading to catch up on.

Now that you’re on the same page as me… here are our future baby pets. Aren’t the sweet?

baby platypus baby sloth

Random Internet Pictures and Obligatory Kitten gif

kitten attack gif dog playing fetch with a statue baby turtle on big turtle

The Castle: Our Future Home

beautiful castle

Have a great weekend!

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

Brian Shares Saturday: Poor Ebenezer and the Joy of Sriracha

For those of you who don’t already know, Brian and I decided on a pet sloth, who we will name Ebenezer Sherlock Pip. So if, you hear about one for sale (preferably a baby sloth that is already house broken), let me know!

That being said, Brian continues to look for additional ideas for the future menagerie… He recently sent me an ad for a koala.

My response?


Brian, of course, pushed the issue later when he got home from work, stating that a koala would be such a great pet… “They’re so cute and cuddly!”

I looked at him, and said, “He would rape and kill Ebenezer. Do you really want that to happen?”

“Good point. Okay, no koala. Maybe there will be an after-Christmas sloth sale?”

“Let’s hope!”

So later this week, Brian sent me Sriracha lip balm (twice).

I told him that I would wear the lip balm, if he would be wearing Sriracha boxer briefs.

Not surprisingly, he said no. This may or may not have been the 3rd or 4th time I’ve brought these up. Even though he looooooves the Sriracha…he just won’t wear the cool underwear.

You can buy both of these items at The Oatmeal, where you can also buy me the Grammar Pack for Christmas… where you can find lots of cool stuff!*

Have a great weekend!

*The Oatmeal did not pay me, solicit me, or even bother to check out my website to endorse them. *sigh* It would be super cool if they knew I existed, but until then I just think their shit is awesome and want to buy it all. I dream of the Grammar Pack often.
Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

Brian Shares Saturday: Christmas Cards and a Sleepy Kitty

First, and most importantly! If you would like to receive a Christmas card from Brian and I (and it’s going to be an excellent card, full of funny), just send your info to I’m so excited about my idea, that I can’t wait to send it out…and I really want to tell you, but it has to be a surprise. I’ve got lots of cards to send and would love to add some more! Christmas is my happy place.

Back to your regularly scheduled shares.

As it was a short week, and I kept him pretty busy, Brian If we were ever to get a normal pet, and not our future sloth, Ebenezer, Brian is most agreeable to cats, which is great because I also enjoy cats. He doesn’t want a puppy or a dog, which makes me sad…but  I think that one day, he will come around. When we have a house. And a yard. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t want a yard… hmmm…

Due to the fact that it was Thanksgiving week, and I kept Brian pretty darn busy… that was all he sent me. So, I’m sure that next week will be chock full of options! I hope that you’re having a wonderful holiday weekend. I’m off to finish cooking for Second Thanksgiving.

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

A Series of Unfortunate Events…Err…Just One, But It’s a Doozy

For those of you who don’t know, I spent a beautiful week in the happiest place on Earth. Walt Disney and I go way back (My first Disney magic, my love of Mousercise, and a grown-up trip to Disney World). Of course, I have a ridiculously long list of Disney memories; those are just a few of them. Tomorrow, I’ll tell you a little bit about our fantastic and magical trip to Disney, but today…Today I’d like to tell you about our pre-Disney “misfortune.”

Our plan was to leave last Wednesday afternoon for Florida. We were ridic busy up until our departure (Brian was working LATE nights to make up for his upcoming absence from the tech-y world, I’ve been trying to find us a place to live, prepare for my new job–that I’m starting TODAY, and a million other little details.) So I told him that he needed to get together what he wanted to bring, and I would pack it.

My OCD tendencies are pretty heavy in the packing department. I hate when the luggage is top heavy and falls down. I roll everything meticulously. I also feel the need to write everything that I pack on a list (this is different than my packing checklist), so that I know what is where and more importantly what would/could be missing upon our arrival.

So on Sunday night around midnight, after a very long day, Brian got all of his clothes together for me. Monday came, and my plan was to pack everything as Tuesday was going to be a circus day of running around. So, one of my besties, Lily, stopped over to help (OK, she stopped over to go shopping with me but whatever. That’s what friends are for).

So upon our return from a shopping extravaganza, Lily watched me pack. Well, she watched about 2 hours of it before she left for her man of the moment. 2 hours later, I figured it was time for a break. Yes, I take a long time to properly pack things in just the right places. Don’t hate. I got up to work on a blog post and perhaps enjoy a quick meal. I had previously texted Brian “Don’t forget to eat!” but I was on the verge of forgetting to eat.

15 minutes into a blog post, I heard my roommate yell, “Dexter! No! No, no, no, nonononono.”

At this point, I knew something bad had happened, as I heard Anna shooing the pup back outside. “I think D got sprayed by a skunk.” My brain processes much faster than anything else…my thought process was something as follows:

Oh God. Oh God. What should I do? Remember the last time this happened? You smelled like skunk for a week. Your car smelled like skunk. Your clothes. Everything. Disney. The luggage! Oh God. Oh God. What do I do? Ummm…Do I leave? Do I stay? Oh God. Oh God. I can’t stay. Our clothes! Everything is going to smell like skunk. I need to go. Shit! Shit! Shit!

So I did what any girl would do…I circled the house, offered what assistance I could, and panicked. Then…I mopped the floor. I’m not entirely sure what I thought this might accomplish, but it helped my piece of mind. The stench was so unbelievably overpowering, I cannot begin to describe it to you. But I’ll try.

If you’ve ever smelled fresh garlic, or better yet, chopped fresh garlic, you’ll be able to get an idea. Imagine the smell of fresh cut garlic on your fingers: a strong, potent, stinging smell. Now imagine that you are walking through a HUGE heavy cloud of that smell. Then, multiply it by 5. That’s what we were dealing with here.

After the attempted floor wash, I decided I needed to get the hell out of dodge…I likely had some laundry to do. Let’s not even talk about how I had just completed 5 loads of laundry so we didn’t come home to a full hamper. So after ensuring that Anna and her incredibly helpful mom, who knew skunk de-smelling tricks, were okay, I threw my shit in the bags and loaded up the car.

I’m not going to lie, I felt like the world’s biggest asshole, leaving Anna and Little D all by themselves to handle the stench. Brian was meeting me at the train by my parents’ house, so I went and picked him up. He got in the car and could smell the skunk. I knew I had carried it with me. So, we got to my parents’ and my mom smelled it immediately. I really thought she was going to kill me. She was surprisingly wonderful about the whole thing–this might be because we left everything outside overnight and by morning the stench had dissipated from the air. Of course, our clothes and luggage were still pretty stinky.

After washing 2 suitcases full of clothes about 7 times, two bottles of Febreeze, a container of Clorax wipes, and a box of dryer sheets, our clothes almost smelled normal, if not a little over fragrant. The luggage still had hints of skunk, so I packed our clothes inside of garbage bags and filled it with dryer sheets.

I was basically running on a total of 9 hours of sleep between 2 days because of the laundry and the folding and the rolling and the obsessive packing…

As we were packing the bags up, I commented that they still smelled a little skunky and my dad looked at me, point blank and said: They’re going to think all that skunk is actually weed. They’re going to confiscate your luggage.

We were able to leave for and make it to the airport on time, and my pink princess luggage was still usable:

The traveling pink princess

As we were getting off the plane, and I saw out the window that my suitcase, which I had just purchased for this trip, was sitting out in the Orlando rain…all. by. itself. I freaked out a little bit….questioned the flight attendants, questioned the guy outside the plane…Apparently when you send your luggage through Disney’s Magical Express, they let it sit there until someone comes by to pick it up. Never. Again. I’m too OCD to let my luggage go without me. I learned my lesson.

Yep, that’s my bag, right there…Somewhere along the line, they also lost my sweet Yelp luggage tag 🙁


It started raining just after this picture was taken.

Sure enough, once I started unpacking the suitcase, I discovered that the assmonkeys at TSA searched through my bag (Come on, skunk smell, dryer sheets, and a garbage bag screams “our dog got skunked, give us a break!” right?) Guess what? All that hard work I spent packing? Down the toilet before it even hit the plane… My suitcase was a mess.

Have you ever had a problem RIGHT before leaving on a trip? What is your packing routine (if any)? Have you have been skunked?

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

Gratuitous Cat Pictures

As promised in last week’s blog post: gratuitous cat pictures for your amusement.

Your welcome.

We’re really mean to our animals, aren’t we?


Sheba Ball


I’m cooler than you.


I’m going to cheer camp, whether you like it or not.

I want to be outside. Please make this happen.

“I’m a Beanie Baby. Really.”

Sleeping in my packed college laundry basket


On the chaise lounge beside the laundry


Cat in a box (Sheba obviously wanted to come to college with me)


Buck and Sheba:
“What’s up, Dog?”
“Nothing, Cat.”
“Carry on.”




Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

Sheba the Cat

When I was 14, our family cat, Chester, passed out of this world. My mother was devastated. She had raised him from a kitten, long before I was a sparkle in her eye. She swore she would never have another cat.

Around the same time, our neighbors across the street had a little accident involving a lit candle that fell over, resulting in a bout of homelessness. Mom had always helped this family out when she could, and this being a desperate time of need, she offered them everything she could.

They were a very large family with very little money, so Mom helped them find a place to live, brought them food from Aldi, donated all of our old clothes/shoes/toys/etc to the family, and made sure that the kids had Christmas presents and school supplies (every year for a good 5 years). My mom has a really huge heart, and she wanted to help them in every way she could.

The family had two cats, Sheba and a little black cat, whose name I don’t recall. They were both mostly outdoor cats, who roamed the neighborhood. Both were lady cats that often would drop dead carcasses at the feet of our former male cat. While the family could hardly afford to feed themselves, they certainly couldn’t afford to feed two cats. They became the neighborhood cats.

Sheba was a pretty, but mean, black and white cat who roamed the neighborhood in a sulking manner. Many of the neighbors, my family included, understood her situation and left cat food out for her to munch on (in addition to the various creatures she would hunt).

Sheba, chillin’ in our backyard

I was a sophomore in high school, and was constantly coming and going from my house. Sheba was often standing outside our front door meowing for food. I had taken a liking to this feisty cat, and decided that I would try to pet her. Of course, this did not work out as planned. She hissed and ran away. Many. Many. Times.

After a few months, Sheba warmed up to me a little bit. She would come close enough to let me pet her, and even purred a little bit. I tried picking her up a few times, before she finally let me. Her fur was soft and silky. I wanted her to love me forever. During this time that Sheba and I became pals, she did not befriend anyone else. She would walk or even run away when anyone else was near. She was my stray.

When the Chicago weather started doing what Chicago weather does best (changing), my mom would leave the garage open a few inches, so that Sheba could hide in the semi-warmth of the garage. It, at the very least, would keep her out of the wind and snow.

One especially cold morning, I was snuggled up in my bedroom, and my mom came to wake me up. She opened the door and was shocked to see a ball of black and white fur atop my comforter, curled up in between my knees. Surprisingly, she wasn’t too mad. She told me that Sheba had to go…but after a few more smuggles, Sheba became a fixture in our house.

She wasn’t my cat; I was her human. She would sleep cozy in my bed, enjoying the warmth of snuggling with her human. She still only had eyes for me, and I loved her. Sometimes, she would wake me up by nuzzling against my face, other times, by walking across my stomach. When she was feeling playful, she would attack my moving feet in my sleep, clawing through the blankies.

Making herself at home

When I left for college a few short years later, she was heartbroken. She peed all over my bedroom closet, ruining several of my formal gowns from high school. Including this beauty:

My Barbie pink turnabout dress. I really wish Sheba hadn’t destroyed this one…

So with her human gone, Sheba sold her soul to everyone else in the house, vying for love, affection, and attention. Gone were the days when she would have nothing to do with any human. She was an attention-whore who wanted everyone to pet her, snuggle her, and feed her. She went from having one human to having dozens. Not bad for a homeless and abandoned cat.

Look for gratuitous cat photos next week. 🙂


Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

The Bad Dog

After losing all of our animals in a freak winter of animal deaths, we knew that it was time to get a new dog. Our plan was to get a new German Shepherd (a German Shepherd/Husky mutt to be exact) on our return from Spring Break at Disney.

While we vacationed in Florida, we spent many of our afternoons trying to come up with a good name for our future dog. After testing out several potential names, I suggested Buck (as my father lovingly referred to my mother, brother, and I as Peg, Bud, and Kelly respectively). Everyone liked it. Buck Bundy sounded like the perfect full name for our new dog.

A week later we went to pick up our new pup.

Buck was unbelievably adorable, a sassy little puppy with pointy ears and enough energy to power a car. We loved him instantly.

During the first storm, we realized that Buck was going to have issues, when he freaked out. Cowering under things, curling up behind furniture, and making huge messes wherever he was hiding were just the start.

Later that summer, we found out that Buck, like Bismark, was definitely a running dog. He would jet out of the house and race for this hills. Or at least race away. Unlike Bismark, he didn’t know where home was or that he should make his way home. Terrified he would get hit by a car, we chased after him time and time again. For hours, we would run after him through our small neighborhood–sometimes making it to Route 53 (a busier road). He did eventually get hit by a car, though it was not a fast moving car, and he made it out of there without a scratch.

In the spring of my sophomore year of high school, two of my girlfriends and I were working on a huge class project. We were going to be shooting a video at Flaherty’s for our English class, and my whole family was at the bar getting the back room set up.

While the plan was to meet at Flaherty’s, miscommunication led Ellie and Elizabeth to make their way over to my house. As was the standard for the open house that was my home, they walked right in. And Buck ran right out. Of course, these were the days before cell phones populated the world, and it wasn’t super easy to get in touch me. The girls didn’t know the phone number to Flaherty’s, and I didn’t know they were at my house.

They chased Buck around for at least a half hour, maybe forty-five minutes. My mom ran home to check on something, and discovered the girls panicking thanks to our idiot dog. Luckily, Mom was able to get Buck back into the house, and the girls were able to get to the bar in time to shoot our video.

Buck Bundy the Dog

The first of many Buck stories, this was far from the worst. Our little devil dog, however much we loved him, would spend the next 14 years wreaking havoc in our world.

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

The Good Dog(s)

We got Bismark when I was 5 (Our first German Shepherd, Joey, died on my fifth birthday) and we had him until I was a sophomore in high school. I loved him so much. He could always manage to make me smile, even when I was crying. I would be sitting on our front landing, and Biz would come over and lay his head in my lap when I was sad. He was a good dog. An ornament that bears his name still hangs on my parents Christmas tree in his honor.

When I was a little girl, I loved playing games, and I wanted to play them all the time. Sorry, Monopoly, Chutes and Ladders, Boggle, and more, but my favorite game was Life. Constantly, I would ask my big sister, my mom, and my dad to play any one of these games with me, but mostly it was The Game of Life. No one ever wanted to play with me. So, more often than not, I found myself playing Life with my dog.

Bismark (our second German Shepherd mutt) was the best dog ever; he would snuggle with me for hours and he would play Life with me whenever I wanted to play. Of course, I had to do all of the work, but he would sit there patiently holding the spot of the blue car player. Life was one of those games that I couldn’t actually cheat in my favor, but I’m pretty confident that I won every game. (Side note: Now I try to play Life with my godson Little A whenever he asks me. I remember what it’s like.)

Bizzy could be a pain too. If you accidentally said anything that sounded like the word “pew,” Biz would go running out of the room. Somehow he knew that it meant something smelled, and he always thought it was him. A fun party trick at times, it got old pretty fast. A little bit of a runner, Bismark was also always escaping. He would find his way out of the backyard, and we’d hear him barking around the block or down the street. We never had to worry too much because he always came home. Often, we’d find him standing outside the front door or at the backyard gate (on the outside!)

Chester, our old gray house cat, was indifferent to Bismark. Chester loved Joey too much, and Bismark was just another dog. Chester and Joey used to sleep snuggled together like brothers. They even cleaned each other.

Bismark the German shepherd dog with Rex the dalmatian puppy trailing behind him

When we were in grade school/middle school, my brother got Rex, the trouble-making Dalmatian puppy. He brought out the puppy in Biz and made him seem years younger. The two would scamper around the backyard together, with Old Biz humoring the nipping, jumping, racing pup. When Biz would escape, Rex was right along with him, and good ole Bismark taught him to always come home. The sight of the two of them standing outside the back gate was infuriating, hilarious, and adorable all at once.

Chester, of course, hated Rex.

In the summer of 1996, a growth started forming on Rex’s stomach. As it grew bigger and bigger, we became more concerned. We took him to our then-regular vet in Lombard, and they told us that Rex was fine, it was a benign fatty tumor. They gave us some cream to put on it and told us he was fine. A year later, Rex’s health started dwindling, and we brought him back to the vet. The tumor was, as it turned out, cancerous. My parents put Rex down in November of 1997. The following January, Chester’s and Bizmark’s health were also failing (an old cat and dog, respectively), and we were saddened to imagine a near future without any of our family pets. Chester, who loved the Christmas tree over all other places in our home, curled up under the tree one night after mom went to bed, and never came out.

German Shepherds are known for their hip problems later in life. This was definitely the case for my board-game-playing dog. In February, after months of dragging his legs behind him, and loss of his bowels, my parents took Bismark to the vet for the last time. I was at a sleepover and never got to say goodbye. I didn’t even know that it was happening. As my distraught dad pulled the motorhome (his daily driver) out of the vet parking lot, he accidentally knocked over the vet’s sign in the front of the property. The vet was PISSED, but after my mother -sassy pants that she is- kindly reminded him that he basically killed our 5-year-old Dalmatian, the vet told them not to worry about it.

We never went back to that vet, again.

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!