Watching Pete is like watching a PeeWee baseball game.

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.