I have four kids. Not just any kids. My kids are special. Yeah, I know. Everyone thinks their kids are special, but you don’t understand. My kids are really something else. My kids will wear you out, exhaust your sanity, eat everything in your house, disassemble your car, send the neighbors to the E.R., somehow manage to be elected class Gestapo leader, and start a new cosmetic company all in the same day. They are going to be president some day. At least my third one is. The first is going to be her lawyer though, the second is going to be her demolition crew, and the fourth is going to be her celebrity endorser.
I also have a dog. This dog runs like a greyhound, sheds like a himalayan cat, eats like a Saint Bernard, chases UPS guys like a junkyard Doberman Pincer, and pulls on his leash like a Siberian Husky in the Iditarod.
So while I was attempting to pack, my kids let the dog out of the house, and down the road he went. His gleeful bounds across hedges and yards put the nearby deer to shame. My son followed after him in his dad’s golf cart zigzagging across the edges of neighboring yards in a vain attempt to rein him back in to the relative safety of our own yard. I finally got in my Jeep and told Son to go home. I went after the dog and finally caught up to him nearing the end of our street about 3/4 of a mile away, where he promptly came lumbering over at my demand as I opened the door to the car. He loves the car. He must’ve thoroughly enjoyed his romp through the neighborhood judging from his satisfied panting and drooling all over the backseat.
The house is still not packed yet. We are all still alive though.