I’m thirty-two. When I was twenty-five I drove a little silver car across the country with a U-haul precariously hitched to the back so I could shack up with some older guy. He had a wienerdog. What can I say?
We got married nine months later (though he had this funny affectation at first where he couldn’t say the word – he said we got M’ed – and I rolled my eyes), threw a dart at a map, moved to Denver where we knew no one, had three babies, acquired four more wienerdogs
(including one born on my bathroom floor),
and now we’re all tumble-jumbled in our little house.
Mind your step. There are small people and small dogs that may, at any moment, upturn something into your path.