Maya has a love-hate relationship with summer.She loves to roll in fresh grass, feel the sun on her hairless belly, and rub her face into the ground where, presumably, a smelly dead bird or mouse or pile of poop once rested.
But she hates that everyone insists on celebrating this glorious time of year by setting off fireworks almost every night on nearby beaches and forces her to spend the evenings a shivering gremlin in our closet.
She'll be happy when we're no longer under attack from loud and evil, fire-spewing showers of light, but then she'll realize it's cold out, the sun is gone, and that spot where the dead mouse once rested has frozen over. I really wish she'd learn to associate.
But she hates that everyone insists on celebrating this glorious time of year by setting off fireworks almost every night on nearby beaches and forces her to spend the evenings a shivering gremlin in our closet.
She'll be happy when we're no longer under attack from loud and evil, fire-spewing showers of light, but then she'll realize it's cold out, the sun is gone, and that spot where the dead mouse once rested has frozen over. I really wish she'd learn to associate.
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