From Silky, I’ve learned that girls don’t like to be stuffed into sweaters like sausages, no matter how cold the morning, and that hearing that their tummies sound like ripe watermelons when patted, is best forgiven with ice cream. Plain vanilla.       

  

Crunchy is not a word that should ever describe one's bed. 



#lifewithdogs 

Silky got into trouble. 
   She was scolded and put out for the night, where she lay in her bed with her bun bun and cried and cried and cried, until she fell fast asleep. 
   In the morning, she was Silky again, bright and wagging. But she was still in trouble. Less trouble, but enough that she was not allowed inside. 
   All day she stayed out. She was quiet and calm, and when the sun set, she and Peter Pan pressed their noses to the back door, wanting in.
   'No, Silky,’ she was told. ‘No.’ 
   Silky sat and hung her head and looked terribly, terribly sad, not because she knew that she was still in trouble. For Silky, the trouble was over and done with. Forgiven. Forgotten. No. Silky was sad because Silky is Love. Pure Love. And Love just doesn’t understand not being wanted, even for one, single, minute.