Yesterday T. and I took the dog shopping. Because, of course, even dogs need shopping therapy. T. was thrilled about the idea of taking Willa into an actual store, especially a pet store, one of her favorite places to go. She loves to watch the birds flutter up and down on their perches, and she dreams of one day owning her very own fuzzy dwarf hamster and one of those extensive plastic habitrail things that turn an ordinary hamster cage into a multi-level theme park.

On Monday we had to make the difficult and painful decision to have our cat put to sleep. We had been wrestling with the very idea of having to make a decision like this for two weeks, yet when the time came it was clear to us that we weren't making an actual decision; instead, we were simply doing what had to be done. In the end, all the agonizing about how and when and what to tell the kids led to a very brief and almost anticlimactic moment in the kitchen. Both kids simply said "oh" and fled immediately to the family room--L. to take apart a flashlight, and T.

I've always considered myself a dog person--all my life. Growing up, we had the most amazing, human-like dog in the world, and she lived to the ripe old age of 16. Our current dog is sweet and wonderful in so many ways, but she's a very doggie dog and can't come close to matching the intelligence and human-like character of our old family dog. But that's okay, really, because with how crazy and chaotic daily life is around here, it's somewhat refreshing to come home to just a regular old smelly, doggie-sort-of-dog.