Cynthia caught me at a weak moment yesterday, which wasn't difficult since my day was a series of weak moments.
You know that it's not going to end well when the conversation begins, "Mom. [delivered with staccato urgency] I have something to tell you, but you need to promise not to yell at me."
Of course, this line guarantees that she is going to drop a bomb so explosive that hootin' and hollerin' is the only recourse. I could feel my blood pressure rising already, but I said, "What, honey?"
"OK. Here's the story. My friend is living in an apartment. She has a dog, but she's not allowed to keep it there any more. I told her that we could take care of the dog until she finds a new home for it."
Her friend is the daughter of my friend, who I took under my wing a decade ago. The family lives in King's Villages in Pasadena (aka the projects).
In my weakened state, I looked up and said, "And this would be temporary until we can find it a permanent home?" Who was I to deny my 19-year-old daughter the joys of animal rescue and lending a helping hand?
"Yes, Mommy," she agreed.
This whole scenario reminds me of when Cynthia was a candy-cravin' pre-schooler.
"Mommy, can I eat a piece of candy?" she'd ask.
"No, munchkin, you may not eat a piece of candy," I'd respond.
"Then, Mommy, can I just HOLD a piece of candy?"
Did I look like I had "FOOL" written across my forehead? (Don't answer that rhetorical question.)
But my daughter's never been a fool (irresponsible, yes but fool, no). Now the "candy," a Chihuahua named Brownie, is "in her hands." We just need to get him out of her sticky little fingers before he ends up a permanent part of her digestive system.
(Barbara R.: This one's for you!)
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