It was definitely a black, black Friday. Three big dogs and only one can of dog feed on the worst possible day in the History of worst possible days to go shopping.

I was going to order a fancy Thanksgiving dinner from the grocery store for the boys and me. I realized, however, yesterday at lunch, that Thanksgiving was tomorrow, or today, however you want to look at it. 

I called, nonetheless.

There was no getting through.

We'll have pancakes. Turkey shaped pancakes.



     

Pete and I have been out five times already this morning to check if Summer has come back. 

It hasn't.

If you get close enough to Pete, and I do, you can still smell the puppy on him.

Some days I step outside of my house and feel as if I am a guest, an outsider, who has rented this life and beautiful property as a getaway, a retreat from complications I have long forgotten. 


      

Pete doesn't know how much longer he can stand being cooped up in the house. 'I'm going bonkers,' he says. And it's true. He is going bonkers. 

Pete got hit by a car. I suppose you'd like to know why he was in the road, and I'd love to tell you, but it's a long, complicated story. Let it suffice to say that, at the time, Pete was not entirely my dog, I just loved him as such, and it really wasn't my business to be keeping him out of the road. Besides, I wasn't home. But Pete came to my house after he got hit. He wanted me to fix him. Not them. So, he's mine now. It's in the rule book. And I will be keeping him out of the road from here on, mostly because I love him, but partly because I could buy a couple fancy dogs for the amount it cost to repair him.