Why I can't have nice things

Aren't I pretty?

I love having the windows open in the evening.  That is until the neighborhood comes alive with dutiful companions walking their dogs. I don’t mind so much, but Gracie feels compelled to remind each passerby that this is HER HOUSE and that’s HER SIDEWALK.

My large picture window is a constant smudge of nose prints and overzealous bark slobber.  But the other night topped it all.

A sweet Jack Russell terrier trotted by with his companions in tow. With nary a backward glance to the barking –like-a-crazy-dog Gracie, he lifted his leg on a bush in the front yard.  Before I could say “Jack Russell” Gracie popped the screen out of the window and was half way through on her way to teach Jack a lesson. I only just grabbed her around the waist and hauled her 85 pound butt back inside.  The screen survived the punch – only slightly bent.  My heart slowed to a normal beat after a few minutes. And Gracie was pleased that she had so valiantly defended her post. 

And this is why I can’t have nice things.