We decided to go home and change first. On our drive home, though, we saw a huge thunderstorm fast approaching. And we have a certain dog son, Mitchell Pancake, Mitchard Doggins (dog athiest enthusiast), who HATES thunderstorms.
So instead of heading off to Mexico, Matt and I comforted our son. The three of us retreated to the bed, our favorite place in the house. Mitch nestled between us, and we pet him and tried to make him forget about what was happening.
We held him and talked to him and tried to make him feel better. And we knew that our margarita plan was out of the question. Each time a huge crack of thunder would sound, Mitch would moan a pitiful dog moan. We'd then hold him tight and talk to him and pet him and scratch him and give him a bone.
We tried to make him feel better (and even entertained the idea that perhaps Mitchard Doggins was manipulating us into giving him so much attention). Eventually, he buried his little dog head and body under the comforter, and we all fell asleep. We didn't wake up until 9:00. (PS--Have I mentioned that I love my life?) No happy hour for Matt and Mandy.
I adore this dog, and so does Matt. And obviously, the well-being of the dog trumps our desire to drink cheap tequila (delicious, cheap tequila). I'm not angry at the dog for being upset and anxious, but I must admit that I was a little bitter about missing out on two for one margaritas in Mexico.
First the rash, then the opossum, then the almost black eye (to be explained later), and now missing happy hour?? Come on, dog. Still, though, I am obsessed. I can't stop talking about how cute you are or kissing your head or feeding you cheese. That's love.