On Wednesday afternoon I bawled in front of one of my favorite co-workers. It was the hitched breathing, ear drum-bursting sobbing, trying-to-hold-back-but-just-can't, disgusting kind of crying. I thought for sure Lucy was going to die on Wednesday night, before I could get home to say goodbye.

I just returned home from a weekend, which is one of the best weekends I can remember. I was up at 6am both on Saturday AND Sunday and I couldn't be happier about it. Lucy is improving so much that (dare I say it?) I think she might be getting better. She eats now and goes for walks and chases squirrels and plays ball and the only thing wrong with her is some (very) shallow breathing. That vet just might have been incorrect in her dead-dog diagnosis. Perhaps God doesn't just save miracles for the human kind.

This weekend Lucy and I went for walks and I visited Brody and Audrey and went to see my grandma and watched a ship come in the harbor. The highlight of the weekend, however (other than Lucy's miraculous comeback), was my brother's challenged (ARFesque) dog being convinced that a stuffed animal was a real-life rodent that needed taking care of. I would show you an awfully entertaining video of it if I knew how. I don't mind showing you, to be honest, just because hearing my voice makes me want to puke all over my newly-washed clothing.

More another time about my hot boss forgetting his pants when he came to work on Friday.