…Gracie opens the door. Doesn’t even look through the peephole.

I’ve never seen her pass up a puddle. No amount of Stop! Wait! Leave It! No! or Gracie, apple! will keep her from jumping right in. Mr. G, honey did manage to keep her from rolling like a horse in the meadow.

I can’t look underneath. Really. I can’t. Maybe if I leave her there for awhile, it will dry and fall onto the utility rug. No. I’m just not that lucky.

Good thing she has an appointment with the groomer next week. On the other hand, what’s the point? She’s a Golden. ‘Nuff said.

Gracie, Gracie, Gracie…

I’m pretty sure I hear my writing calling me.

Elen