Cracked

Am typing this post from bed.

It is Sunday morning and the hubs and I would love to be a sleep. Instead, we are laying under a pile of dogs. Rowdy, playful, wild dogs.

Ripken woke up at 7 a.m. ready to play. This isn't unusual behavior, as he's a naturally happy animal. However, he doesn't usually attack us with kisses and attempt to pull the pillows off the bed while our heads are still on them.

Now he is bouncing off the wall. Literally. I am going to be so pissed when we are repairing a hole in the drywall because he went through it like Wiley Coyote being chased by the Roadrunner.

Ripken has successfully worn everyone out. He's so desperate for someone to play with that he just went over to the cat, crouched down on her level and tried to convince her to party down with him.

She was all: DON'T. TOUCH. ME. FUCKER.

And now he's got this look on his face that says: Do you think the neighbors are up? Would they want to wrassle? I think we should go see.

Whoever gave my dog crack, in the words of Gertrude: Stop being a fucker, fucker.