My problem.

I got me a problem.

It’s not walking Tug and Cutter a couple of miles everyday where walking equals being at the ass end of a herky jerk tractor pull that, to date, has jacked up one knee, wrenched my back, pulled something or other in my other leg, yanked my bicep, and lengthened my right arm.

It’s not them sleeping in bed with us, even though I barely remember what Miss Carol feels like. Now, instead of cuddling with soft smoothness, I find myself draped in itchy, snoring dogs huffing and woofing hot dog breath in my face, chasing dream rabbits.

It’s not their incessantly manic barking at everybody and everything that moves.

It’s not having to share my apple and banana breakfast with them, even though they usually eat most of it and I go to work hungry.

It’s.

It’s that I’m getting wwaaaaaaay to attached to them. I’m lucky in that I get to come home for lunch everyday so I spend a LOT of time with Tug and Cutter and not much time with anybody else.

I work by myself so my interaction with other people is pretty limited. At the end of the day I go home to Cutter and Tug and then Miss Carol comes home and we have a cocktail and dinner and sleep and then it’s back to work again.

So this is my problem- the Friday after Thanksgiving we’re flying to Cozumel. Miss Carol’s youngest sister Julie is racing in an Ironman triathlon and we’re going to provide some kinda semi-drunken race support for her. Think beer and bikinis and the occasional shout out- GO JEWELS!

It should be and will be and promises to be a ton of fun.

And yet.

I can’t help but think that for five days I won’t be going home for lunch with the boys, won’t be sleeping and snoring in a big pile with with them, won’t be jerked and yanked, cursing, each morning and evening as we walk, won’t have them napping at my feet while I write this drivel, won’t have them barking for treats every time I get near the kitchen, won’t be seeing them impatiently waiting for me to do something.

I gots a problem.