Joy in the afternoon

After my surgery on April 14, I started thinking I wanted to get a Chihuahua. We have two in the family, and they are most excellent dogs, especially Larry Wayne, the elder dog. The younger one, Hoddie, has an attack of the "Get that witch out of here"s every time she sees me.  I don't know where the idea of Chihuahuas as yappers came from; the ones I know BARK.

 I didn't hurry into the decision.  Rather, I spent my time in radiation listening to R2D2 hissing on my right and four-and-twenty blackbirds shrieking behind me (the indicator that the isotope was out of the safe in R2D2) and contemplating whether to get a second dog.

Back when I had one child, an OB/GYN told me that two children weren't more trouble than one. I still don't know if he was misinformed or lying.  In any case, I reached the conclusion that wanting a dog was valid and akin to my decision to get a cat when Fred was sick. Koko is large, and a small dog was required.

We adopted her the next-to-the-last day of radiation. This photo is from that afternoon. Koko was trying to snap up some cat poop in front of him, and Laramie Jean was just trying to figure out what I wanted her to do. She was found wandering down Preston Highway, a mighty Louisville thoroughfare; and she is seven years old.

Koko is also seven years old meaning, as I'm certain you already noticed, they're twins.  Fraternal twins.