Why can't it be a baby bird?

Garbo is our big, fat pit mix with a brain that would make a T Rex seem like a genius. Her (only)saving grce is that she is VERY tolerant of the children. They can sit on her, dress her up and smack her upside the head and she just sits there, looking dumb.

She does have the incredibly annoying habit of following the kids when they are eating something, as if that one crumb they might drop will save her from certain starvation. She likes to sit under Sawyer while he eats at the table, and if she's especially daring, she will stick her head in his crotch to be that much closer if a noodle or bite of carrot should fall in that direction.

Today Sawyer was playing outside while Sage napped (oh yes, he no longer does quiet time OR nap, which is why yesterday he fell asleep folded in half on the couch at about 3:30 p.m., precisely two seconds after finishing a yogurt and asking for a cheese stick).

The dogs were outside. I looked over at Garbo and she was walking across the lawn delicately carrying something in her mouth like it was her own newborn pup (she was spade so has never known the joy of motherhood).

I hoped it was a mouse. Or a baby bird. Anything but what I knew it really was.

You know you're beaten down when you wish ill on a defenseless little creature because the reality it just too icky to contemplate. Maybe I should have prefaced this whole post by mentioning that Sawyer continues to poop in his pants. Did it twice today, ruining his Lightning McQueen underwear because NO AMOUNT OF BLEACH ON THE PLANET could ever remove the memory of that particular load.

So I yelled at Garbo to drop it, and she actually did it. I slowly walked over, my throat already gagging like I had just come face-to-face with mayonnaise on a stick. And there, in the grass, resting quietly on a patch of dead grass, was Garbo's prize: no feathers, no fur. Just a lovely solid dog turd.

At least I didn't step on it.