There was a point in time — when Frankie had reached a certain age — that I frequently called Lucas in the midst of a puppy-is-insane-I-must-leave-for-work-but-the-beast-won’t-stop meltdown. Terrorizing the cats, squeezing under the bed then crying because she couldn’t get out, angering a once-content Tito, running through the hall with the end of the toilet paper roll in her mouth (tail in full-wag the entire time)…the dog never stopped.
I think it’s safe to say, Marco has reached that age.
Yet, no tears have been shed this time around. It could be that I’m tougher.
Or, maybe Frankie just did a fine job of breaking me in.
Either way, those will always be two of my favorite faces, ever.
Side note, please excuse the bathroom. The 1970’s purple disco fairytale we bought with the house has yet to be redone…