Friday, March 9, 2018

When walking means facepalms for days.

To set the scene: 

One human. Three dogs (one of whom is 18-years-old, deaf and GENERALLY my shadow). Two leashes. Three bags of poo in-hand.


A three-course meal for five (pasta with marinara sauce, mashed potatoes, and meatloaf) that is dumped in shin-high snow in the woods at the cul-de-sac at the far end of our walk.