She's old, Carol said. She's little, Carol said.She's cute, Carol said. She's a little leaky, Carol said. She sleeps most of the time, Carol said.
Let's see...what did Carol not say?
She plays like a puppy. She barks more than Kiefer. She likes going walkabout and finding a warm ray of sunshine to toast in for hours. She prefers a collection of beds from which to choose. She is a raw meat junky. She can steal your heart in the blink of an eye, and she won't ever give it back.
So I come home tonight from a long (long, long) day at work, and Chris has made turkey soup for dinner (She loves me, I'm spoiled rotten, she likes to make me wonderful dinners on Sundays). I sit down with my lovely soup, and in trots Mabee (who is 15, partially deaf, partially blind, but with a nose like a bloodhound, that dog can smell meat from 500 yards). I start to eat. She starts to growl. I continue to eat, she starts to bark. I give her a piece of turkey, she stops barking long enough to swallow. I eat some more, she barks some more. Long story short, I ended up with turkeyless turkey soup, and she's on one of her umpteen beds in a turkey-induced coma.