I didn't waterboard the dog

No, I did not waterboard the dog. Nor did I murder her.

And really, I was too tired to want to all that much.

Paul was up all night with a terrible ear infection. Despite the fact that I'm on my second child with the Carnahan head anatomy, I am no better than I ever was at figuring out that an ear infection is on its way. If I generally waited until the kids said they were in pain, they would be dead before we went to the doctor. Many is the time I -- all apologetic for wasting the doctor's time over a runny nose -- have taken a chipper child to the doctor only to be told, "Wow. The inside of that ear is as red as a valentine heart."

But last night, poor Paul made it all the way to serious pain before either Chris or I had a hint that something was wrong. The motrin could barely hold him, and and when the relief fizzled out, he wouldn't even stay in my lap for more than a few minutes at a time. But he paced the room, yelling ouch.

Today, has antibiotics and numbing drops for his ear.

So, yes, Chris and I are a bit tired today.

So, yes, this is the day that the neurotic dog, who usually will not stray more than 3 feet from my side, ran off into the alley and spent the next 20 minutes rolling in the worst smelling garbage and shit. I am not calling it dog poop; she ran back into the house smelling like rancid dog shit.

So I bathed her and thought about never eating again.

But no, Reader, I did not murder her in the bathtub. The only torture she endured was the Dreaded Bath.

Because when you're feeling a little bit sad, a little tendency toward self-pity for no good reason except being awake around the clock, Life in the form of The Dog does something to push the whole situation into comedy.

And as disgusting as the dog was, there was no question of there being something hilarious (and hysterical, in every sense of the word) about having to give the dog an emergency bath when the people are running on fumes.