I dreamed of Clint Eastwood last night. Not that I’ve ever been particularly enamoured by him but just before bed last night, Catie, Riley and I caught the first bit of a movie called “Space Cowboys” with Eastwood, Tommy Lee Jones and James Garner.
Brutal.
Riley couldn’t even stay in the room; Catie only remained because she was ensconced on the couch beside me and a bad movie wasn’t enough to move her.
The movie did result in an addition to my growing list of life’s unanswered curiosities (like: what DOES the tooth fairy do with all the teeth and do I really want to know?; and WHEN exactly did children’s strollers become the size of Smart cars?) … what I’d like to know now in all seriousness is whether all men’s waistlines advance higher to their arm pits as they age or did Clint just have a really poor wardrobe manager?
I digress.
I awoke this morning to a familiar presence in the bed. In my dopey first moment of consciousness, I thought it was Riley, but while he’ll cuddle at night before the lights go out, he doesn’t typically linger until morning. I was incredulous to discover that the furry warm body against mine was Catie. We have a king size bed and it’s quite high off the ground; Catie hasn’t been on it for months now.
I assumed that my husband must have helped her up.
I assumed wrong. He assured me he hadn’t.
I can’t imagine how she managed it.
Catie says: Never underestimate Hollywood’s penchant for bad movies nor the determination of a Golden Retriever