Day 106

Wellons Drive.  Ames, Iowa.  Terri, Jamie, Me, Tigger, and Tommy.  Jason was probably soaking his feet?

Grateful for cheeseburgers

Dad taking the job and moving away from Mom's family in Superior was a leap...and he took it. 
It was probably one of the hardest things that Mom did was move away from her family.
We lived here, in Ames.  Aunt Jean and Gram would visit often.  We would make the trek there all the time, too, because family is very important...that's something we were taught early on.  This entry, however, is about the dog. 
Our dog Tigger, he was something else.  The dog's head...was huge.  He was huge.  Wherever he went...outside, inside, to bed, next to his food bowl...he had his cheeseburger.  I believe this cheeseburger would wear out weekly, and Mom...claiming she "cannot stand the gd hairball"...would go and purchase a new one bright and shiny with a squeaker that would drive you mad.  (And in the background, Mom smiled a little when Tigger was thrown his new cheeseburger.)  Pretty sure she liked him.  Him was a good boy most of the time. 
Except on Sundays.
Him was not a good boy on Sundays.
Sundays were 'sleep in days' for Mom and Dad.  We would wake up early, turn the tv on, and watch endless cartoons and eat whatever we could find in the fridge or the pantry.  We knew we had to be quiet. 
That plan was all well and good...unless we came down the stairs...and god a whiff of the pungent odor of a freshly laid pile of poop by the ginormas dog Tigger.
Let me tell you, it smelled bad.  Baaaad. 
It was a contest.  It was nearly a race...a competition...to see who could run up the stairs FIRST and tell Mom and Dad.  (Because Tigger pooping voided the sleeping in Sundays.)
Most times, we all got up there at one time and in a sing songy chorous...we sang in unison...
"Daaaaaaaaddddd, Tigger pooped in the dining room again.....Daaaaddddd....are you going to get up....it smells baaaad."
Then God's last name (which we thought was dammit) would be mumbled by something like...
"you good for nothing hairy assed..." and then Mom would say, "RENO!"  And then told us to just go back downstairs, Dad would get it.
Pee-eww.
Tigger was lucky we loved him, and that Mom loved him (just a little)...because those poops were big.
And I don't know...
...I still think its funny as hell we would wake Dad this way on Sundays.
Poor guy.  I don't know how he cleaned it up without barfing.