Doug, my almost inhumanly tolerant non-animal-loving spouse, has been known to mix up the dogs’ names (who can blame him; if I start to count all the names of the dogs that have been in our house since we got married, I sound like I’m calling roll for a full brigade). However, he does usually at least TRY. The dogs, just as a reminder, are Clue, Bronte, Ginny, Bramble. The cat is Woody.
Well, tonight he went down to let the dogs in from the yard, and I heard whistling, then lots of muffled yelling and a big thud. Then he came stomping up the stairs and poked his head through the door, a somewhat wild look in his eye.
“Well,” he said, “Tarty and Little Nemo were smart enough to come up, but Ice Cream and Satana the Devil Dog from Hell gave me the finger and ran around the yard and I tripped over Donald Trump on the way through the door. I’m going to bed. Don’t forget that Ballsy McGee’s crate is still on the front porch.”
I’m still not sure which one was the cat.