I’ve written elsewhere about Gary Paulsen’s My Life in Dog Years, but it occurred to me this weekend, during the dreaded spring cleaning, that our girl’s little life is recorded in the complete backyard scatological record.

This post is mainly to disabuse myself of any remaining romance—that having a dog might place me in a Paulsen-esque narrative. Instead, it leaves me right here, in three or four hundred dollars’ worth of dog food’s deep shit. A sordid tale indeed. Hope your weekend was more exciting than mine.

(I herby relinquish any last claims to having an audience.)

  • Early reconnaissance
  • Aerial pup turds
  • Little cuties…(Wait, those colors are not found in nature.)
  • Once warm fuzzies
  • A Cedar platter (and more technicolor)…
  • Shit is getting real
  • You’re a big girl now…
  • “A redolent story of back yard adventures…”
  • “A rich and fervent performance by a young actor full of…potential.”